Harry Potter and the Heir of Seven
by ChangeIsJustifiable
Summary: Harry must decide what reality is, because time waits for no man. JUST WATCH AND SEE HOW MANY CLICHES I PUT IN! Au, No B7:DH, Creature!H, Powerful!H, Desendant!H, DarkButNotEvil!H, Sirry.
1. The Wolf Hunts at Midnight

**Harry Potter and the Heir of Seven  
****ChangeisJustifiable**

**Rating**: R for WRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is the creation of J.K. Rowling. All resemblance to peoples real and fictional on the part of the original characters is completely accidental (except on certain parts and certain characters, but all purposely resembled parties have been forewarned, unless they were fictional parties in which case they hardly care). Certain liberties have been taken with common laws of physics, as well as languages, spells, history, and all that other good stuff. **Warnings:** Psychotica, Queerness, AU, blatant disreguard of canon sources, and all that good stuff. **Summary in Full:** He has never been quite right, and it makes too much sense. A potion changes his world, and he has to decide just what reality is. Has time really given him a second chance to rewrite history, or is it all just a cruel trick? He must decide quickly, because time waits for no man ... not even Harry Potter. AU, No B7:DH, Time Travel, Creature!Harry, Powerful!Harry, Descendant!Harry, DarkButNotEvil!Harry, Sirry.

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**Chapter One: **The Wolf Hunts at Midnight -- And Harry can follow it like no other  
In which Harry Potter reveals his past, and the letters begin

---

Even a man who is pure in heart

And says his prayers each night:

May become a wolf when the wolf-bane blooms:

And the autumn moon is bright.

---

**-- Accio Harry Archer's Diary -- **

_August 24th, 2007_

It would be that final battle that broke him.

Harry's years at Hogwarts had never exactly been easy, or bright, or cheery. But as they wore on, it got darker, it got more violent, and people died and people cried, and it was hisfaulthisfaulthisfault. He clung with all his strength – with all his will, with everything he was and everything he had – to his friends, dear sharp kind Hermione and stout strong Ron, trying to find some stability as the wizarding public grew restless and the Ministry turned on him and the world changed. He needed some security in a world gone mad, dodging spells flung by both Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and a radical group that called themselves the Resistance.

"Like this is some stupid game or movie," Harry had snarled to Hermione, and Ron decked the spitting wizard who'd ambushed them. "They think this is some stupid fantasy!" And he raged and he cried, and sometimes he died, but they never let him go and he had to come back and why-why-why?

And it got worse, only worse. Remus – wonderful Remus – stayed in touch as much as he could, and sent letters and sent chocolate and sent warnings and sometimes he sent himself, but everyone was panicking and everyone was afraid and everyone was mad as a hatter, and no one was thinking _and he was a dark creature, after all, wasn't he_? Tonks, his only constant companion because "What have I got to lose, Harry?" – lovely spunky Tonks with her wild unruly hair got swept away in a mob, and no one had heard from her since, and it was hisfault, now, wasn't it? And it was terrible, absolutely the worse, because Remus was grieving, and Snape had killed Dumbledore, and there was no Wolfsbane potions, and it was the wrong time of the months and there came the hunters –

It was the innocents, or get bit.

And Harry, because he couldn't stand it, and it was hisfault, and he never wanted Remus to feel badly, Harry had to do something. And he wished that he'd found some time to become an Animagus, if only to help soothe and draw the raging wolf away. But he could see that the wolf was panicked-cornered-furious, and he had to do something, so he did the only thing he could think of.

And poor wonderful Remus, it wasn't fair. Harry would have never done this to precious Remus if the alternative hadn't been worse.

So he took to hiding also, and was so very glad that those idiots hadn't been there when it happened, hadn't been there to be stupid, hadn't been there to make everything Harry did for naught and still so very much hisfault. He managed to lead Remus away, because he smelled familiar to the wolf, and never threatening like everything else and _come here, because I know a way to somewhere safe where you can hunt_. And hunt and hunt and the wolf did, but the prey became Harry.

They managed to hide it, though. Darling dear Hermione and shining protective Ron helped him hide it. He managed to live, and they managed to hide it, though none of them ever thought that Remus got over that.

They never saw him again.

Harry's world was falling down around his ears, and it was only ever hisfault.

So then came the final battle, scant years later, when Voldemort got desperate, and _why did he get desperate when he was doing so well_? But he got desperate and struck when Harry was young, and near the full moon, and it was only Hermione that had Harry alive and Voldemort dead.

Hermione made the greatest sacrifice of all.

Harry had so thought that he'd managed to convince her otherwise. She'd come to him one late night months and months ago, mentioning a spell. She told him it could mean all the difference, and it would, he could see that, but he didn't see it like she did. He denied her use of the spell. "Hermione," he whispered with desperate deadly words. "It'll kill the caster!" and she got her stubborn look. Harry argued though, and the wolf knew how to worry at something like a dog with a bone, and nights flew by without talking but to shout, and the cold shoulder was spread thoroughly about. But then she stopped talking about it at all, and he thought he'd won (he'd hoped he'd won, he _prayed_).

But she hadn't forgotten about it at all, and when Voldemort stood over Harry with that terrible brother wand aimed straight at his face and a cruel smirking sneer twisting those lizardly features, a brilliant shot of color struck the creature in the chest. In the following confusion, Harry lashed out with the very curse that Voldemort once used to mark him as an equal, and it was over.

Finally over.

Only it wasn't, because the ambitious Death Eaters now had a vacancy that needed to be filled, and the Resistance was paranoid enough to think Harry would attempt to take that throne, and Hermione was laying dead on that battlefield and Ron was insane with grief, and the battle had gone on too long, and it was too late, too many people had died, and too many were still crying.

And Harry, Savior of the Wizarding world, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Defeat-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry Potter who was the last of the Potters, who lost his friends and lived his life only to save everyone, Harry was branded a Dark Creature, just as Remus had been, only to the world, Harry was the ultimate evil. He had defeated Voldemort, and he had done it with an Unforgivable, and he was a werewolf, and he was too powerful to live.

And they kindly ignored that he didn't do it alone, that he couldn't have, and the names of those who helped him were lost.

And it was that final battle that broke him.

The Resistance rallied the people, and why would they do that, why bite the hand that saved them from the cold? He was on the run, always running, never stopping. They hunted him like shepards after the wolf, and he ran from one side of the country to another, desperate-desperate and cursing his luck and cursing his life.

And then it was over.

It was over.

They had him cornered.

Brilliant shots of light and small explosions of spells that missed lit the air around him and flung dust into his eyes as he scrambled frantically over the hill. Sheep scattered around him, bawling in terror as they ran through the darkness, some being hit by spells and bound in magical ropes or stunned or confounded. Harry flung himself recklessly forward, tumbling head over heels down the slope, rolling across the grass and fighting to his feet to run again.

Almost to the barn – almost. If he could reach the barn, then he might be able to hide.

He ran blindly, ducking and dodging whether hexes came his way or not. The grass was wet with dew and it glittered under the waning moon, but his bare feet dug into the soft soil and didn't slip. His shoes were in the barn he was living out of – he'd just moved in the other day, and already the Resistance had found him. Their distinctive scarlet robes glared out of the darkness and streaked silver in the meager light, the masks they wore of Merlin's stylized face glinted sharply and pinpointed their position in the darkness. Those pale bearded caricatures leered at him when he glanced over his shoulder and encouraged him to strain himself harder. _Didn't they notice just how similar their garb was to that of the Death Eaters_?

He finally reached the wall, racing along the side of it, and still they failed to hit him. Some crazed corner of his mind gibbered something about a 'broad side of a barn' and the lack of skill implied by unmarked wall. He ducked around the corner and forced the door open, dodging into the darkness and eager to hide. It smelled musty, and the air was rich with the stench of manure. Old hay had been comfortable enough for him to sleep in, and the barn seemed ideal since it was actually several hundred feet from the muggle owner's house.

Only the muggle wasn't as much removed from Harry's society as he thought. It turned out that the old man who lived there was a squib, and he knew about Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Cast-Unforgivables. He had alerted the Resistance, and now Harry was facing the possibility that he would not survive the night.

Silently, he raced up the ladder, heading for the small stanch of possessions he still kept around. He stuffed his feet into the ragged taped things that were once shoes, and grabbed his wand. Cruel Avada Kedavra green eyes turned toward the door, shining in the darkness like the eyes of a beast, and his teeth fairly glowed in the gloom as he bared them like the cornered wolf he was.

The first man fell to a simple Disarming charm. Harry had gotten very proficient at casting the overpowered sort that tended to throw people backwards; ever since Snape had been knocked cold by the three of them in third year, Harry had wanted to learn to do that. He did his best not to cast Unforgivables, to use the spells any wizard was allowed to use, but it seemed to make no difference in the eyes of the public. He was still Harry Potter, the man anyone could attack without fear of repercussion. If aurors caught him, would he be Kissed?

He wasn't afraid of the thought, only bitterly angry. The Dementor's Kiss was a wretched thing, something that people couldn't even bare to watch, but Harry had nothing to live for. If they could capture him, and they wanted to feed him to the last Dementor in existence, that was fine with him. He would simply take as many people down with him as he could without killing them.

The next man recoiled with a hoarse scream as Harry cast a cutting curse right into his eyes. The barn shook violently, moaning as it rocked on its foundations. Someone must have cast some form of Confringo. Scarlet robed wizards poured into the hole. Harry scrambled across the hay loft, toward the window. He grabbed a plank of wood and tossed it out the window. With a sharp "Impedimenta!", it slowed it's decent, and he leapt out the window on top of it, then flung himself to the ground.

Half of him wanted to run, but the other half wanted to go to the house and repay the squib that ratted him out. He ignored the crueler, darker impulse and ran as fast as he could, even as his strength was flagging. He hadn't quite recovered from the full moon, and his adrenaline was fading.

A scarlet shape loomed out of the darkness, and Harry dove down as a spell flew over his head. A 'Homenum revelio' lit his clothes with a soft glow, and Harry quickly cast a 'Finite' before struggling to his feet. Before he got there, a Levicorpus jerked him into the air. He quickly repeated the spell and even as he fell, he cast a Disarming spell. He hit the ground awkwardly, stunned and the breath knocked out of him. By the time he managed to struggle back up with muscles that trembled with the strain, the others had found him.

A sharp disarming spell tossed him several feet and ripped the wand from his hand. He rolled, squirming across the grass and trying to reach it, but he felt the thick ropes of 'Incarcerous' before he heard the spell cast. With one arm still awkwardly thrust forward, he writhed across the grass. If he could only get to his wand ... Harry thrust his hand out frantically, stretching with every last ounce of his will for his only hope. A foot came down on his wrist, shooting pain up his arm, and the wizard bent to pick up the thin length of holly. Harry's stomach heaved and soured, bile rising in his throat. It had been years since anyone had disarmed him, and held his wand in their hands, and the lack of control was startlingly terrifying.

The masked wizard twirled the wand through his fingers, then glanced down at him. A muffled voice snapped a lazy 'Stupefy', and everything fell to darkness.

When Harry woke up, it was to the stinging burn of smelling salts. As a werewolf, he didn't need something that strong to wake him, so it was an unnecessary cruelty. He was certain the salts were purposeful, though, as tears fell swiftly down his face and his nose ran and stung badly enough he could convince himself the skin had actually peeled away from the inside walls of his abused olfactory organ.

"Welcome to the land of the living, little Harry," a teasing voice sang, startlingly similar to his nightmares of Bellatrix. He'd almost say she _was _Bellatrix, but for the fact that a few years after he was bit, the wolf took hold of him during a full moon and ate her while her heart was still beating. Harry had never known what to make of some of her babble as the wolf tore into her and spilled her blood and her entrails everywhere; she seemed to almost approve of her own death. _'Aaaaah ... did you love him, little baby Potter?'_

Harry was tied to some chair. The wood was singed severely, and they seemed to have relocated themselves into some ruins. Instead of the clear night that Harry had been captured on, the sky overhead was dark and stormy, and a light drizzle fell. Drops of water were rolling off his scalp, and his clothing was damp, so while he had been there some while, it was not too terribly long. He wasn't chilled to the bone yet. His glasses were gone, but he could see well enough.

There was something disconcertingly familiar about the ruins, but he couldn't think of what it was. He ignored the Bellatrix wannabe when she started to taunt him again, but his head snapped around and he stared at the man who approached. The way the others moved away to clear a path hinted that this might be their leader, and the wolf in Harry, so prominent in his psyche as it was just two nights ago that he'd transformed, was wary and cornered.

"Harry Potter," he drawled. This voice certainly didn't sound like anyone he knew, though the attitude reminded him of Snape. "So nice of you to join us."

"I didn't have much of a choice," he snorted.

"Now, now, don't be that way," the man chided. "You're the guest of honor."

"Filthy Dark Creature," one of the men at his shoulder hissed into his ear. He didn't blink or show the surge of irritation that caused.

"You are a hard one to capture, you know," the leader said. "I've never seen anyone quite as paranoid as you."

"You try being Voldie's favorite victim, then we'll talk," Harry said evenly.

"But that's just it!" he said, rising his arms toward the cloudy sky. "You never were his victim, were you? After all, if it hadn't been for you, he would have never been able to come back."

"He was still hanging around," he corrected, rolling his eyes and shifting under the ropes. "You seem to forget that I was the one that cut short the first half of the war by destroying his body. It's hardly my fault he came back – I'd like to see you fight off fully grown wizards when you were fourteen!"

"Spare me your excuses," the man said, lowering his arms and folding them. He gestured sharply to a man standing nearby. "Watch him."

Harry watched the others all trickle out of the room until he and the man were the only ones left. He shifted again, glancing around. Though twenty-six years old, Harry wasn't much larger than he had been. Just over five foot and nine inches, he was corded with muscle and looked like some wild man. Hermione always used to laugh and call him the Wolfman of Surrey.

The man in scarlet robes walked closer, and Harry watched him with wary neon eyes. He reached up and pulled the mask up off his face to reveal features sharp enough to cut glass and fey silver eyes.

"Malfoy," Harry said with heavy irony, a quirky smirk crossing his features. "Things really come full circle."

"Shut up, Potter," Draco Malfoy said, pulling the thick frame glasses out of a pocket and tucking them into Harry's robes. "Listen, the Resistance was going to kill you." He folded his arms and stood back, unreadable face framed by silver blond hair. "I talked them into a youth potion. The process will be painless."

Harry let out a bark of laughter, then rumbled a pure werewolf growl at Malfoy just to seem him pale and lean back. "How nice. I would have thought you'd _like_ to see me suffer."

"Don't be stupid, werewolf," he snarled. "My father might have been senseless enough to think anything good could come from joining with the Dark Lord, but I never wanted to be enslaved to that Half-Blood."

How Harry had loved helping Hermione fashion and cast the spell that that proved in front of everyone that Voldemort was half muggle. He was not above psychological warfare, and Hermione had to drag him away even as he was screaming that it was a gift for killing Sirius. "So, finding a way to painlessly kill me is a _thank you gift_ for defeating Moldie Voldie?" he sneered.

"Something like that," Malfoy said. "But cheer up – I said they _were_ going to kill you. The Resistance would rather use you like the pawn you always were."

While not always the sharpest tool, Harry caught onto the meaning of that. His stomach turned over; they were going to turn him into a child, and raise him again. He was going to suffer _again_. "Killing me would be kinder," he said bitterly.

"It's your lucky day," he said, a sudden sharp bitter smirk twisting his features. "I'd rather see you dead than raise you. I gave them the wrong dosage information. You'll die anyway."

Unexpected favors. "I hope you don't expect me to thank you," he said.

"Of course not," the blond sneered. "I'm not doing this for you."

"I doubt the Resistance will be pleased with you," Harry said, watching the blond closely.

"I know," Malfoy said, shrugging. His shoulders were tense, but there was something bleak in his expression, something dull about his eyes.

Harry gaped a wolf-grin. "You're going to kill yourself, aren't you? I suppose you have a poison in your robes somewhere ..."

The sharp silver eyes narrowed at him, but the other man did not deny the accusation, staring at him with tightly pursed lips.

But not tight enough to be as white as they were, and he hadn't regained the color that he lost when Harry had growled at him. "You already took it," he said, understanding lighting his features. He eyed Malfoy. "Is it painful?"

"No," he said flatly. "But it's cold." There was a blue cast to the shadows around his eyes.

"The Suffocating Freeze," Harry realized. "Hermione brewed it for our side. There's no antidote ..."

"I know, that's why I chose it."

"To give the excuse that I poisoned you or something?" he demanded, letting out a harsh bark of laughter.

"You bloody idiot," Malfoy spat. "I'm not your enemy! The entire Wizarding world knows about that potion due to your followers using it."

Harry stared. "You're trying to claim you're on _our_ side?"

"I hate you, but I'm not stupid, Potter! I did what I could so that you'd win. That book – that spell, _that _came from the Malfoy library. I knew Granger would never be able to resist reading a book like that."

"You _killed her_!" he shouted, rage boiling up with a vicious suddenness. Bits of rock flew from their resting spots to strike the walls and larger rocks rolled over as the scarlet robes that Malfoy wore billowed in an unfelt wind. Somewhere behind him, a wooden support beam exploded in a shower of splinters, stinging his back and drawing a red line across Malfoy's face. The blood that welled in the cut was a deep purple, but began to blossom into a vibrant red. Harry twisted violently in his ropes, snarling in pure wolf-speak.

"Oh, calm down," Malfoy said, wiping the blood from his face. "She understood what she was doing. I wrote notes that made it _clear_ that she'd die if she used it, just in case her notorious intelligence failed her when it came to ancient pure-blooded speak."

"I told her not to!" he bellowed. "If you hadn't set that out, _she'd still be alive_!"

"And the Weasel would still be sane, et cetra, et cetra," he said, shrugging. "But the Dark Lord would _also_ still be alive. She was a grown woman, Potter. Stop thinking you could control her."

"I'll _kill you_ – I've never infected a man, Malfoy, but I would bite you without intent to kill," Harry raged. Malfoy was white as a sheet now, not even the pursing of his lips enough to draw a paler shade. The hollows of his cheeks were cast in blue shadow, and his eyes were losing focus. "Did you ever know that a werewolf bite can overcome the Suffocating Freeze? Come a little closer, and I'll show you what I mean!"

Malfoy stepped away sharply, pulling his mask down. His fingernails had turned blue, but were also purple at the edges. His breaths came in desperate gasps, and Harry watched closely, listening to the potion steal Malfoy's life from between fingers that didn't even struggle to hold onto it.

He rocked violent in his chair, face twisted into a disgusted grimace. What Malfoy expected to earn from revealing himself and giving Harry a warning of what to come, he didn't know. It could have simply been poor judgment brought on by the suicide.

Malfoy had hidden himself just in time, for not even thirty seconds later did the door reopen, and the others came back. The leader held a vial of bubble-gum pink liquid – the youth potion, if Malfoy spoke truthfully.

"Our potions brewer has taken it upon himself to prepare this lovely little potion for you," he said, an amused note to his voice. "You will drink this entire phial, and it shall return you to your childhood. From there, you shall be ours, Harry Potter. We shall raise you with our own values as your guide, and we will beat the evil from your hide."

How that sounded like the Dursleys thinking they could beat the magic out of him, he realized sardonically. How was it he was the only one who saw how completely hypocritical the entire world was?

The wizards in scarlet robes stepped forward, and with spells, they bound him tightly back. One used a spoon to pry his teeth apart, and the man with Snape's attitude stood over him, uncorked the bottle, and poured it down Harry's throat.

He barely had time to register that it tasted like butterscotch when there was a commotion. Someone screamed a name that was unfamiliar to Harry's ears, even as he became woozy and realized that the ropes were loosening around him as he shrunk. "Suffocating Freeze!" a woman screamed.

Someone else uttered the name of Harry's own little army as if it were a curse, and Harry's head was spinning.

Power surged through him, he could hear the rattle of rocks, and he felt the binding spells shred under the force of the magic that wasn't his own. People were screaming, and Harry couldn't think. He thought he saw Ron – how could he see Ron? Ron was wasted and feverishly insane and chained to a bed in St. Mongo's.

"C'mon mate," Ron said, grabbing Harry by the wrist and tugging him up easily. Even as he stood, Ron seemed to grow taller and taller. "Sorry about this, Harry," he said in his earnest way, peering out from under the floppy hair cut he'd taken to wearing. "Hermione hoped you'd understand. Just ... take care of yourself, alright?"

Then Harry pitched forward into blackness.

–

_Dear Harry - _

_I suppose you're right mad at me right now. Please don't be too furious, I know you didn't want things to turn out this way. I didn't either, really, but you must understand that I did the only thing I could. If I could have found a different way – a better way – you must know that I would have done that instead. _

_I know that if you're reading this, then I'm dead. But if it went the way that I meant it to, then I did it for you, Harry, and I did it for the rest of the wizarding world. It meant so much to me when I found out that I was a witch. It changed my life, and for the better. No matter what I've ever said to you, I want you to know that you're one of the best things that ever happened to me, Harry. Please forgive me for paying you back in a way that you must find hateful. _

_There is something else that I must warn you about. Ron and I made these decisions, and we did it for you, and we did it for each other as well. Harry, if Ron has died, and no one can tell how ... _

_I'm sorry, I really am. Ron probably isn't, but I don't think he understands. We made a pact, and I myself set the spells. If Ron is dead, and it isn't obvious what happened, then you likely found yourself in a difficult situation – likely one that was supposed to kill you. _

_Please forgive us, Harry – one day, because I know you'll hate us too much right now to consider it. _

_Ron sacrificed himself for you. If you ever found yourself in trouble, then Ron would die, and his sacrifice would make certain you lived. It's old magic, Harry, and I don't know how it works, not really. I haven't had time to study it – and I never will. _

_And Harry, please ... I know you'd never take the easy way out, but I also know you won't work for your happiness either. Please, for me, try to find some sort of happiness somehow. If there is some sort of afterlife, I want to know that you are happy, despite what everyone has done to you. _

_Merlin help you if I become a ghost. I will haunt you if you don't do what you can with your life. _

_Good bye, Harry. I do love you. _

_- Hermione the Hangman_

_PS: Remember this Harry. It's important.  
__"The wolf hunts at Midnight,  
__When one becomes two-thousand-three-hundred-and-forty-three,  
__Will the Fates take quill and history rewrite.  
__When the same occurs twice and two walk the earth that one tread first,  
__Powers will shift and prophecies will die.  
__Twice will two walk the path of one, and Light shall relieve its thirst;  
__The blood of the besmirchers will flow as the rain,  
__And the people drink."_

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We are pleased to inform you that  
CAPSLOCKOFRAGE!Harry  
will be portrayed by  
_ItalicsOfRage_!Harry  
for the duration of this fanfic.  
**- The Management**

When leaving reviews, please leave an email so if you wish a response, or have questions you want answered.

I do have plans to make this a Sirry -- Sirius/Harry -- fanfic. It will just take ... a long time. A very long time.


	2. He Dreams of Running

**Chapter Two:** He Dreams of Running -- And Memories of Things Best Forgotten  
In which Harry wakes up in a place strangely familiar, and meets people who died a long time ago

As I was walking up the stair  
I met a man who wasn't there.  
He wasn't there again today  
I wish, I wish he'd stay away.  
- Hughes Mearns  
---  
**-- Accio Harry Archer's Diary -- **

_Month Unknown, Day Unknown, Year Unknown_

He woke with his customary jerk. It was like coming out of a nightmare too terrified to scream -- only there had been no nightmare last night; his body wasn't pumping adrenaline, and he felt cold when he was always panting and burning hot when the nightmares came. It was so strange to wake up cold. Without further movement or opening his eyes – which was useless, for if anyone had seen him jerk they would already know he was awake – he attempted to survey the room.

He was on the floor – it was cold and hard, stone worn smooth by footsteps under the frozen flesh of his cheek. Judging by the airflow, he was in some sort of elongated room, either at ground level or below judging by the chill. _Night_ was his third judgment, made by the pure silence. Stone may not have carried sound well, but it did carry vibrations well enough, and the floor was still under his sensitive fingertips. One last check – no, it seemed no one was in the room, or else they were being remarkably quiet and still. He finally deemed it time to visually assess the room.

He'd been wrong, he realized, once he opened his eyes and sat up. It wasn't a room; it was a hall. An almost ... achingly ... Thought halted. Harry reached desperately for his wand, chest heaving _once_, _twice_, _trice_ before it froze still. His hand found nothing. His brain jumpstarted once more, and he rose to his feet, thinking, thinking desperately while a corner of his mind gibbered.

When cornered, or taken by surprise, Harry often lost his right mind. Hermione coined it 'shut down', and Harry had read enough books to know why she had. It was not an intentional cruelty, her calling his survival methods by the same name that so many victims of abuse used. The incorrect thing was, Harry never entered that state while he was actually being abused. When he couldn't hold his wand, he couldn't shut down.

And Hermione, dearest Hermione, hated it when he did. He completely stopped thinking – it was all pure act-and-react, blind and unfeeling – a creature's way of assessing the region and situation, a creature's way of moving, a creature's feral responses, _dangerous_. But did her feelings really matter anymore? After all, Hermione was crumpled and red and dead-dead-dead.

There was a part of him – felt more in the pit of his stomach – that was panicked to be without his wand. _You are still dangerous_, the wolf cackled in his mind. _You don't need those silly sticks of wood to be deadly and fight and strike and kill_. _Never mind that sightless thing, though_, it whispered in his mind with teeth-baring amusement. _You're a hunter – you're dangerous_. It would be easy to listen to the dark creature's instincts, and Merlin knew that Harry did so many, many times. _Dangerous to an unarmed wizard, perhaps_, he muttered sullenly back. _A whimpering puppy at the hands of someone who knew what they were doing!_

Between the Death Eaters and the Resistance, Harry had learned that lesson, and learned it well. He had to, or die. No matter how good he thought he was doing, or how trained he thought he was, there was always someone better, someone quicker, someone with just a few more years experience who wanted his head on their wall. And even when there wasn't, there was that damnable thing called dumb luck, and never forget that for all the brilliant good luck that he always had, he also had all the bad luck that did its best to leave him dead – very dead – to make up for it. _Never let your guard down, boy_, that cackling voice said. _You'll get your ass bit off!_

So busy was he denying that the hall was what every sense told him it was, and so busy bitterly reminding himself that he had to be careful, that irony almost did just that. His head jerked when he noted the footsteps and the strange twilight that preceded someone who was monitoring the halls, and he quickly dashed down the hall on silent feet before he found a corner to dodge around. It was then that another discrepancy came to his attention. The familiar pull of skin across his back was most unfamiliarly different.

That night, when he led Remus away from stupid innocents that would never know any better and the deceitful hunters who would never care the difference, it was his back that the werewolf got with gleaming teeth and vicious claws. It was his back – his _back_ – so why didn't the massive scarring pull so much in that weird way it did when he'd twisted around the corner in an unnecessarily fluid move? As he quickly slipped down the corridor, steps silent the way only dodging wizards and aurors could make one, he gave his visible parts a curious once-over.

Harry wanted desperately to surrender to shut down. Shut down was safe, because he wasn't supposed to have those still slender arms, and unmarked skin. This skin was smooth and tanned from the outdoors, and his hair wasn't nearly as short as it should be, as he had cut it once physical fights had entered the war scene. His clothing was the same – still the same ragged robes and clothes stolen from laundry hanging to dry, robes that would have made even Remus blush to claim – but they hung so loosely on this frame, much more loosely than he had begun wearing it. He was never comfortable with things that came too close to the skin, but this recalled the worse days when Dudley practically exploded, and Harry had become so thin. His hands pulled and tugged uselessly on the pocket that his wand used to hide in, and it was still gone, and he still had to think-think-think. How had he gotten into Hogwarts, and how would he get his wand?

He ignored – he had to – the amused whisper that said this wasn't his Hogwarts. His sense had said as much – there was something distinctly unfamiliar about it, far too much for it to be the same Hogwarts he'd left two years ago. Even with the passage of time, shouldn't it smell even the slightest hint of anything familiar? There was little familiar though, and his years spent after graduation as a werewolf within the walls gave him little room to doubt himself and bring some peace to his mind.

What to do, then? He had to get in touch with whoever was in charge. There, he had a goal. Now he had to achieve it.

_Taking this all in amazing stride_. But he had no time to panic and question; circumstance demanded that he worry about survival first – very first, and once he was safe he could worry-worry-worry. When he was safe and he knew what was going on, _then_ he could panic and get mad and plan revenge and smirk and chuckle and make everyone _else_ throw those cautious frightened looks about like party favors. But not until then. Doing so before he was safe could kill him, and then where would he be? _Behind the veil and offering silly sheepish looks to pouting frowning people who'd left him behind and were terribly upset he'd caught up_.

All right then, the Headmaster's office, where darling sweet Minerva had learned to sit and purse her lips and frown with those sad-sad eyes. At the very least, he could get in touch with her, or whoever her replacement was and perhaps get himself out of Hogwarts uninjured, and hopefully no one would be too very upset that he'd showed up unannounced and without an explanation as to how he'd gotten there. The wards around the castle were extremely vicious these days, and if he tried to leave on his own, he simply couldn't. No one could surpass Hermione's spell spinning when she put her mind to it, and Bill had always made unhappy noises when he was called in to unravel it. Harry couldn't say how he'd bypassed the wards to begin with, for it should have been simply impossible, nor could he say what he was going to do once he got out of them since he lacked his wand. He could only hope that Ollivander would be able to give him some sort of replacement and wouldn't frown too heavily to learn that Harry's very special wand had been lost – perhaps forever. He doubted the Resistance would ever let him have his back in one piece.

Forget the smell of the place – shouldn't some of the paintings be different? He frowned at the walls, sharp eyes behind thick lenses cutting through the murk, and spotting places paintings should be, and paintings he didn't recognize. He was certain he'd haunted the halls enough at night to know for certain where they all belonged. He forcefully redirected his attention. Later. That would all wait until later.

Then the gargoyle loomed before him, and he had to find a way in to the Headmaster's office. He wondered sardonically if he should knock when he got there, and if that would work at all. It was night, and the castle was silent like the tomb, and he wasn't even sure if Minerva or whoever would be in. He reached forward and tickled the gargoyle's chin; he'd learned that many things would open to a little affectionate scratching. It leapt aside, and he started the long walk up the stairs. At the door, he figured knocking couldn't hurt; they'd all become so much sharper, easier to wake and quicker on the draw during the difficult times. Hopefully whatever automatic or dramatic responses the Headmaster had, blasting someone knocking on his door wouldn't be one of them. He rapped on the door, wondering how he was supposed to explain something he didn't even understand.

It might not be surprising he didn't understand, of course, he thought as he knocked again. After all, he knew next to nothing about those things that weren't immediately important for his survival. How to heal wounds, how to brew certain points like Pepper-Up and Poly-juice, basic notice-me-not spells, and hexes and jinxes ranging from the cruel to the absurd numbered his repertoire of skills, but kidnappings and exotic potions were beyond him. One never knew what could come in handy, but one tended to forget theory and reasoning when one was too busy dodging Unforgivables to think.

The door opened, Harry caught sight of the man, and his hand ripped the pocket that should have held his wand. His mind stuttered, he sucked in air as if sucker-punched, his knees went wobbly, and Moody would have killed him seven times over. Harry couldn't help it though. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be his Hogwarts – there wasn't a doubt that this wasn't his Hogwarts. _What was going on_?

"Dumbledore?" he croaked. He had seen this man fall from the tower. No one but Harry had ever survived Avada Kedavra. No one could survive both at the same time. No one could, Dumbledore was dead, and Harry swayed on his feet like someone out at sea.

The Headmaster, dressed all in blue sleeping robes with golden shimmering moons, crooked an eyebrow at Harry, his blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. It was not the joyful twinkling knowledge that Harry was accustomed to, but it still made his stomach heave sickly. "Well, this is certainly interesting. Young man, please, come in."

Harry numbly followed the old man – old, yes, but not as old as when Harry saw him last, with those blue eyes already knowing, knowing, and that bright flash of green – and sat in the chair in front of his desk with a heaviness that he'd only ever seen Remus do, that night that Sirius died.

"Taffy?" Dumbledore inquired, gesturing to a glass bowl filled with little colored squares wrapped in wax paper. Harry almost declined when his other habits got the better of him and he took one. Candy might not be healthy, but it was something, and during war it didn't pay to be picky.

"Thank you," he mumbled around it. Apparently, Dumbledore hadn't gotten to the lemon drops yet. He seemed to Harry at that moment to be like some overgrown five year old, eating nothing but his favorite candy until he burned out on it and had to try something else. Harry chewed on the taffy, and sensibility returned to his sluggish mind. He carefully, carefully considered what information he had collected, and carefully sorted out the possibilities. The most likely situation was plainly that what he had been told was a youth serum was actually another potion that would convince the victim that they were in another setting, talking to people they trusted; either Malfoy had lied, or the Resistance caught on. That was insidious, and it meant that Harry could not tell anyone he spoke to anything that wasn't already common knowledge. If he managed to find out what the setting of this hallucination was, then he could pretend complete ignorance of anything inappropriate (and he thanked and blessed Hermione's soul for teaching him to actually _think_ before he acted and to reason and be smart).

A less likely, but no less loathsome possibility was that he had finally gone over the deep end with a dead dragon tied to his feet.

Finally he looked up at the rather patient – but no doubt completely in control – headmaster, and opened his mouth. "This will be difficult, Headmaster. Both in deciding what shall be done and accepting the answers I give you."

"Don't worry about it, my boy," Dumbledore said. "Just tell me what you've come to say, and I'll do the deciding. Now, can you tell me how you arrived here at Hogwarts?"

"I'm a little confused by that myself," Harry admitted unwillingly. He had never taught himself how to lie to Dumbledore. The old man hadn't been around for Harry to do so, and that made this potion even more terrible than he previously realized. Before he continued, he carefully gauged the age of the headmaster, and determined that this setting seemed to have been set before he was even born, which meant that it was likely that Moldie Voldie was still running rampant. "I'm fairly certain this was not the intention of the people who had me last. I assure you, I mean Hogwarts no harm, and I have some knowledge of what is going on at this time, so to a certain extent I will be perfectly willing to give you what evidence you require to assure that I am not here to cause any trouble."

"Then I suppose you know what my first request will be?" the headmaster inquired.

Harry did not hesitate to bare both arms and turn them so the largely unmarked stretches of tanned skin could be seen in its entirety. "As for assuring you that I am not one of What's-His-Face's unmarked allies, I can't offer anything. I will insist on not taking any Vertiserum; I can not stand the stuff."

The illusion of Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "And that silver scar on your arm? Phoenix tears, wasn't it?"

Harry could see no reason to lie, though they would be here all day if the illusion inquired about all of his scars. "I was bit by a rather large basilisk, sir," he admitted. "Phoenix tears saved my life."

"If you won't accept Vertiserum," the headmaster said. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind a few other options. The first is to come face-to-face with Fawks; he is a phoenix that has decided to honor me with his presence, and I'm certain he wouldn't mind determining if you are a danger. Then, I would like to subject you to Hogwarts' own Sorting Hat. The Sorting Hat is not usually used for this purpose, but since no thought is hidden from him, I am sure he would prove willing enough to give his own opinion."

"I have no problem with Fawks," Harry said, but paused. How likely was it that this illusion could actually prove to be dangerous? He was not afraid of what the Sorting Hat might say anymore, but he was concerned that the Sorting Hat might prove to be an analogy to a similar device among the Resistance. What the Resistance might hope to glean from what he knew, he couldn't say. Harry had lost contact with the werewolf pack that had grudgingly taken him in, and therefore he could not give up their location. He had no friends that required hidden locations that he knew of, and he didn't know any secrets. The Order of the Phoenix, while still in place even after all that had happened, had cut their ties with Harry as well. The last two years of his life, he had been a dangerous figure politically, and it paid no one well to know him or to have proven connections with him. Finally, he nodded. "And I'll accept the Sorting Hat as well." It would be best not to let whoever was watching in on these illusions know that he was suspicious.

The old wizard rose with a vague smile on his lips. "Good, good," he said, making his way over to the shelf were the patched and ragged thing slumbered. "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you, and were did you get your education?"

Harry shrugged half-heartedly at the old man's back. "I don't know my age for certain, sir. I was home schooled in a tiny wizard's village, and we guess my age at around fifteen or sixteen. I rather insisted on being vague on my age, since I can't say for certain." Actually, he was doing his best to guess at the age his body was currently. He guessed somewhere around there, but he couldn't be certain.

"Oh? Ward of the village?" Dumbledore inquired as he made his way back to the desk, the Hat in hand. He whistled sharply before sitting.

"Something like that," Harry said vaguely. "No one knows for certain what happened, but even if they don't say it, I know they suspect that Dark wizards got my parents."

"That's very sad, and unfortunately not very rare," he acknowledged.

There was a sudden burst of fire midair as Fawks appeared, crying a high and sad tune; Harry nearly recoiled as the wolf within him twisted painfully in his chest, and he had forgotten, of course, that werewolves were Dark creatures, and phoenix were of the Light. Fawks flew above the two men, and then came to perch on Dumbledore's shoulder. Harry took a deep breath, then looked at the beady black eyes. He did not try to project anything, nor did he try to hide anything. The glittering black eyes stared back at him then the phoenix rose its head and began crooning softly. Fawks took off from the headmaster's shoulder and settled on his perch, ruffling his feathers and then tucking his head beneath a wing.

"Well, that was certainly interesting," the headmaster said vaguely. "Now the Hat, if you don't mind?"

Harry uncertainly reached for the Hat. He was not certain how to take the way Fawks had reacted to him. Carefully, he straightened out the dear old Hat, and set it on his head. For a long moment, he was alone in the darkness, and then the cloth shifted.

"Well, hello there," the same small voice he remembered from his first year whispered in his ear. "I see, I see. Very interesting. Ah-hah ... Yes, I do see. Rather tragic and all.

"Yes, I see that you have lied to my dear friend Dumbledore, but I do not see any malicious intent. You have plenty to spare, dear boy, and that is something I see clearly, but none of it aimed at Hogwarts or Dumbledore. Very vicious. Killed with your bare hands – very sad. Very bloody. Now, don't react like that, my young friend. I also see what you've done for the Light."

_I never wanted to bring harm to anyone who didn't deserve it_, he insisted silently.

"Ah ha, but some deserve it that you would protect. A nice double standard you have there. Yes, I see the whole story now." Suddenly, the voice wasn't so small and only in his ear. "You have nothing to be concerned with from this boy, Albus," the Hat said. "A Gryffindor's heart, it's true. No, he'll cause you no more trouble than you would yourself." Then it was tiny in his ear. "A Gryffindor heart, but boy, I tell you, you've a Slytherin's soul."

Harry shivered terribly at that and snatched the Hat from his head, belatedly easing his grip and setting the Hat carefully on the table; he had thought he no longer had anything to fear from the Hat's words, but he was quivering inside from uneasiness. The Hat huffed and puffed a little where he set it.

"Startled you a little, did I? Well, never mind," it muttered to itself. "Albus, next time don't wake me so early. It's hardly worth my time to sleep before the next sorting, and so now I'll have to be terribly bored."

"I apologize for that, my old friend," the headmaster said as he lifted the Hat and carried it back to the shelf. "I trust you understand my reasons, though."

"Oh, I'd watch out for that one if I were you, I do not blame you," the Hat chuckled. "Now, let me be while I put the finishing touches on this year's song."

Finally the old man turned back to Harry. "Now, with that formality is over, let us introduce ourselves like civil people would if there were no war to make some forget their manners. My name, as you must have guessed, is Albus Dumbledore, and I am the current headmaster for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"I'm Harry," he replied, reaching out to take the headmaster's hand. "Harry – just Harry," he finished awkwardly. He'd grown to resent his surname in recent years, and the illusion did not change that.

The headmaster took it all in stride. "Alright, Harry. Now, you said that someone had you earlier, and that sending you to Hogwarts was probably not their intention."

"I did," he agreed. "I seemed to have gotten on the wrong side of a group of wizards. They had glamours, I couldn't tell you what they looked like, but they gave me some potion, and I woke up in the hall not far from here. I don't have my wand, so I can only guess that they still have it – and I hope they haven't broken it." Harry was very really terrified of that thought. Being a wizard was all he had now, and he was loathed to lose that as well.

"Can you at least tell me where your village is? Perhaps a name, or the name of a nearby town?"

Harry thought fast. There was a spell that Hermione used to use – sort of like the Feidilous charm, but completely different in the spinning. "I can't – we're all under a charm. We were doing our best to hide from Dark wizards, you see, and that means hiding the location from both friend and foe. I'm not even sure I could find my way back, since I've never been outside."

"That does present a problem," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "So there is no chance at all you'd be able to return to your village? No one we could contact to return you to, or anything like that?"

"I'm afraid not," Harry said, projecting as much of his real fear of never escaping the Resistance and whatever illusion they had trapped him within into those words.

The headmaster hummed at him, reaching for another piece of taffy. Harry sat dismally silent while the illusion carried on. Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "Very well then. I suppose we'll have to enroll you into Hogwarts."

Harry blinked rapidly, and then internally seethed. He would not have put it past the creator of this potion to be Snape, for surely only Snape could come up with something so completely evil that it would not only trap him in an illusion, but that the illusion itself would trap him in the place he felt safest. "If you think that's best," he choked out.

"There will have to be arrangements made, of course. I shall have to alert the Ministry to your existence, and I suppose it would be best to claim you to be sixteen. That way, you'll have more rights and input into their decision as far as a guardian for you."

"A guardian?" Harry echoed, appalled. Surely he wouldn't end up with the Dursleys – or worse!

"Of course. It'll only be for one summer at most, though. I suppose I shall have to ask around to see if anyone would be willing to vouch for you. I don't think there should be any problem with that – you may not look it, but you are very mature. How good are your spells, Harry? I might have to put you in remedial classes so that you can keep up with the other students, or arrange tutors."

"I know enough to get by," Harry said weakly. He had graduated fourth at Hogwarts, and then went on to fight a war and dodge adult wizards for nine years. 'Enough to get by' was no exaggeration.

Dumbledore had pulled out a length of parchment, and was writing on it. "Very good," he said distractedly. He wrote at some length, then paused. "What shall we say your name is, dear boy?" he asked. "Its a rare chance to name yourself."

"I don't care, really," he muttered.

"No preferences at all? No? Very well," the wizard said and went back to his writing, scrawling some name across the paper that would now belong to Harry. "This process should take a few days if we do this with no information at all," he said. "However, if you'd like, I could take you to Diagon Ally for some spells and potions that could reveal any blood relatives you might have outside your home."

That sounded interesting, and maybe if this wasn't all just a lie, Harry would have accepted. "No, sir, thank you anyway, sir," he said.

"Any preferences for your date of birth?"

_... born as the seventh month dies_. "Maybe you ought to make it early October," Harry suggested vaguely. "So I'll turn sixteen during the school year."

"That sounds just fine," Dumbledore said. He scribbled a few more lines, and then blew gently on the parchment. "I'll owl this off in the morning," he said. "And there might be forms to fill out later, or perhaps the Ministry will send someone to talk to you personally, or request your presence. Either way, you should become a registered wizard by the end of this week."

"What about my school supplies?" he asked, blinking.

"Well, you'll have to settle for the public school supplies, I'm sorry to say. As for your wand, since you've lost your own without much of a chance to recover it, then I have a few old ones laying around you could try. They won't be nearly as good as your old wand, but one of them should work well enough."

He nodded dully. He was loathed to try to work with any wand that wasn't his own, but he didn't dare tell Dumbledore that in this illusional world, they could probably jog down to Ollivanders and get his wand all over again. "So where will I be staying?"

"That does prove a bit of a problem," Dumbledore said. "But I think we shall keep you in a spare bedroom until the school year starts. Then, we'll move you to the Gryffindor towers. The Sorting Hat _did_ say you had the Gryffindor spirit."

Harry did not bother to correct the illusion. "Alright," he said demurely.

"Now, it is rather late," the headmaster said as he checked a clock. Harry was completely lost as to how he managed to read the thing. "So I'll have to take you personally to your room. In the morning, Professor McGonagall will take you to obtain your books from the school's supply room. Once you are registered with the Ministry, someone will take you to Diagon Ally to get your robes. We will have to collect reimbursement for that, of course, so it's up to you whether you want to go to Madam Malkin's or the second hand robe store."

Harry smiled crookedly. "The second hand robes are fine," he said. They would be better than what he had been wearing for years now.

"Very well," Dumbledore said, standing. "Come with me."

Harry rose and followed the headmaster out and down halls and up stairs, following the twisted paths of hateful illusions – or perhaps, the even more twisted and mad paths of chance.

–

_August 30th, 1997_

"Hello, Harry," Remus said tolerantly as the bar of chocolate slid out of his pocket. He turned the page of the book, luminous golden eyes scanning it unceasingly. "How was your summer?"

"Wretched," Harry admitted, removing himself from the werewolf's personal space. He broke off a bit of chocolate, sucking on it as he glanced over the book Remus was reading. His eyes fell, uncomfortable. Remus was looking through a book of spells to use on werewolves – he was currently looking at the ones made specifically to contain them. He felt another surge of hatred toward Snape. Not only had the bastard killed Dumbledore, he'd depriving Remus of his potions. "How is Tonks doing?"

Remus glanced up and gave one of his smiles that didn't reach his eyes. "As well as always. She managed to bring the pot rack down yesterday, so dinner was cooked in a dented pot."

"What a coincidence," Harry said dryly. "I dented a pot over Dudley's fist, and had to cook dinner with it as well."

"Well then," the old man said as his eyes glinted with amusement. "We've had a very similar summer."

Harry grinned to see Remus' mood rise even the slightest. He wanted desperately to help in some way – to lighten Remus' burden in some manner, but the werewolf had sharply denied him any access to the books that could teach him how to become an Animagus, and Hermione had yet to find any books with the formula for Wolfsbane Potion.

He had left the Dursleys on his birthday, making remarks about it being his birthday gift to himself. Most of August had been spent at the Burrow, but finally, Remus relented to his nagging letters and said that he could spent the last two days of summer at his house with Tonks and himself.

"I heard from Hermione that you plan on running not only the DA, but the ... I believe you decided to call it the 'Dogs of War'?" Remus inquired.

Harry flushed. "It's a working name," he grumbled. "But honestly, I might as well. In fifth year, Neville and Luna insisted they come with me to the Department of Mysteries. We're working so hard that we can't have normal DA members thinking they can help us out, and I still wanted to help those who don't want to fight with me."

"Harry," Remus said, standing and putting the book away. He turned and set a hand on his shoulder. "You're so young, and all of these people ... they're children."

"But I don't have a choice – and you know that, Remus! And it's better for these _children_ to be trained when they try to help me than to be untrained and getting killed quicker!"

"I know," he said softly, soothingly. "I know. I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing."

Harry stared up into those weary golden eyes, feeling numb and lost. "I've known the cost of my actions since fifth year. I won't be making that mistake again."

Remus' hand fell away, and Harry left, the stolen bar of chocolate laying abandoned on the table.

–

_Dear Harry:  
__I hope this letter finds you well.  
__Its hypocritical, but don't blame yourself.  
__- Remus Lupin  
__January 23, 2003_

_PS: You were the most important person in his life.  
__Please don't forget that._

**-- I solemnly swear I will use the Darkness for Good -- **

As always, leave an email for me to reach you at when you post comments or questions in your reviews.

**Posted**: Sept 17 2007  
**Next Update Expected**: Sept 24 2007


	3. Ring around the Rosaries

**Chapter Three:** Ring around the Roseries -- Harry Potter falls down  
Some of the Truth comes out, and Harry Potter kills an enemy he swore death upon

**Warning:** Gore in this chapter. If you can't handle animal maulings and possible disturbing themes, please skip the section over the past.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,  
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;  
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token  
- Edgar Allen Poe

---

**-- Accio Harry Archer's Diary -- **

_August 25, 1975 (?)_

He was badly confused by this time, and it couldn't be denied. The more sleep and time to reflect he got under his belt, the less the illusion made sense. Why would they confront him with people he was supposed to trust in a setting he was supposed feel safe in, but have the people there not know who he was? Unless his psyche was really just that shattered – and he wouldn't be surprised, he had read enough books to know that the last thing anyone who knew anything about him expected him to be was _sane_ – he must have figured out the purpose of the potion wrong.

Perhaps the potion was supposed to finish off what was left of his sanity.

His temporary quarters were, as one might expect after being informed that he had to use second-hand _everything_, rather spartan in nature. He had a single small window that overlooked the lake, and a single portrait on the wall of a very antisocial wizard, who mostly sat in his rather cushy red chair and sulked. He refused stoutly to speak to Harry no matter how politely the temporally displaced young man spoke to him. He even attempted to speak parsletongue to the wizard as a last result, only for the painting to leap to his feet and storm out.

As there was little to do, Harry had preoccupied himself with his braided cloth bracelet, turning it in circles around his wrist while he stared out the small window. His young body ached from the strain of having stood for some hours now, but he had long since understood mind over matter as far as pain was concerned, and thus ignored the complaints. He had just taken notice of the raw path the cloth had carved on his arm when a knock came at the door. _Said the raven, Nevermore_.

Professor McGonagall looked even younger than Dumbledore had. Her hair was a sleek black, tied strictly as ever into a bun, and she was still what he might consider old, but she didn't look old so much as stressed. She wore robes of deep red, accented with light crimson shades, but her tall pointed hat with that familiar jaunty crook to the tip was as black as ever.

"My, you do look rather like James," was the first thing that came out of her mouth. She glanced over him, then scanned his room and finally cleared her throat. "I am Professor McGonagall, and you are Harry Archer, I presume?"

Harry broke out of the confused stare he had aimed in her direction and nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

She allowed him a small tight smile. "Come this way, Mr. Archer."

Harry dutifully followed her through Hogwarts. Perhaps halfway there, he remembered to ask. "Um, Professor, who is James?"

"James Potter," she said with a sense of strained dignity. "Is quite the troublemaker here at Hogwarts. He's just your age, and you do look quite a bit alike."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face, and air had a bit of difficulty trying to reach his lungs. _His father_? He had been so certain that the illusion wouldn't have been set in this time. _But she just said that his father was about his age_. What could that possibly mean?

"Dumbledore was kind enough to warn me of the resemblance, but it I didn't think it was possible for you to look quite as much like him as you do; if I didn't know better, I would swear you were brothers. I do trust you won't be causing the same trouble he does, though," she added with a warning stare over her shoulder.

"No ma'am," he choked out. _Not the same trouble_, the wolf chuckled in his ear. _Not the same trouble at all_.

"Good. Mr. Potter is something of the Gryffindor ringleader, so you might want to watch your back. He would likely find it amusing to prank you quite a bit, but you can come to me if you have too much trouble."

His breath still coming short, he dared to ask yet another question. "Is there anyone else I should worry about?"

"Mr. Potter's friends, mostly Sirius Black. Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew are far less likely to cause you any problems, unless Mr. Potter or Mr. Black manage to talk them into it before they understand what it entails."

Harry could not stop it. His knees turned to rubber and he stumbled and collapsed, shaking. _Sirius. Sirius was here._ _Sirius was alive, and this Sirius had never suffered and it was __Sirius_. After eleven years of grieving, after almost nine years of the wolf inflicting the pain even sharper on him than he had experienced before he was bit – and he hadn't thought that was possible, because when Sirius fell through the Veil, he had hollowed Harry out and took everything in him with him – after all of that, he was going to meet Sirius again. He shook so hard he thought whatever he had left to him was going to shake right out of this pitiful, frail body.

Minerva was on him in a flash. "Are you alright, Mr. Archer?" she demanded, her stern hands on his arms, holding him upright.

"I – don't, I'm –" he stuttered, chest heaving. "I'm fine, let me go!" But he couldn't stand, he couldn't push himself up and he couldn't stop shaking and he couldn't get away from her.

Her face twisted into a determined grimace, and she quickly had her wand out. "I'm taking you to the Infirmary," she said in her 'no arguments' voice, and levitated him. He could find no strength to argue, or protest the treatment, air rushing through his head and dizzy and shaking and shaking and shaking.

Through the halls she rushed with Harry in tow, and the doors of the Hospital Wing flew open seconds before she reached them. "Madam Pomfrey!" she called. "I have a student here, in shock!"

Pomfrey rushed from her office, and together, the two women had him down on a cot and covered with a sheet. Pomfrey was casting diagnostic spells over him, and handing him potions to choke down, and finally –finally – he calmed, sinking into a dull hazy serenity, sinking into the pillow and shutting his eyes. The knowledge that he'd see Sirius again still fluttered frantically in his chest like a butterfly in a spider web, but he was no longer shaking, and no longer trapped within his own body.

Minerva and Pomfrey were talking, just out of ear shot, and then the Gryffindor Head of House left, and the matron returned to her patient's side. "So," she said conversationally. "You must be the new student I've heard about."

Harry nodded miserably, working his tongue against his teeth to try and get rid of the terrible aftertaste of the potions.

"Did you inform our dearest headmaster that you are a werewolf?"

The ground dropped out from under him, and suddenly he had more to worry about than just the fact that Sirius was going to be at Hogwarts. "I'm not," he said numbly.

Mrs. Pomfrey fixed him with a stern look. "Now, look here Mr. Archer," she said. "I have had werewolf patients before, so I think I'd recognize the curse when I run a diagnostic spell."

_Stupid, Stupid, Stupid_. "Don't tell," he begged. If no one knew him in this illusion, then no one would treat him terribly. He was sick and tired of being called a Dark Creature when it wasn't his fault, and he was the sanest werewolf he knew. The only people he had ever attacked were those who deserved it, and those bitten by another.

Pomfrey did not respond to that. "What I am curious about is which of these scars of yours is the culprit, Mr. Archer. I can't find the bite for the life of me."

"It," he gasped, then halted and swallowed. His mangled back was what saved him so many times, for there was no bite mark at all to be found, only so much tearing and it was ever so easy to claim that he'd offended a hippogriff. But _she_ knew the truth, and he couldn't lie about it, and now was the time to come clean to the healer if he expected her to be able to do _anything_ for him. He stared at her with wide miserable eyes, because he had more than just the curse to worry about. "Mrs. Pomfrey, don't tell anyone, please!"

Somehow, she must have sensed that there was more even beyond the curse he was talking about. She frowned deeply at him, sitting down on the nearby chair. "Alright," she said slowly. "I won't overstep patient confidentiality unless there is a very good reason to."

He sagged a little in relief. "Mrs. Pomfrey," he said slowly, trying to think over what he could say. "Do you know anything about cases of people who aren't ... in their proper place?"

"You might have to be a little more specific than that," she said carefully.

"Perhaps place is the wrong word," he said. "Maybe I meant time."

She stared at him for a long time, while he fiddled miserably with the sheet stretched over him. A part of him raged against having given this much information, but Harry was having a hard time of it. He'd been on the run for two years, and now he wasn't certain if he was time traveling, or if he had been trapped in some sort of illusion, or if he was insane or something even worse. He needed someone to confide in – desperately – and while he had never been friendly with the school matron, she was here, and if Sirius was attending Hogwarts, she was keeping Remus' secret and maybe she would keep this one as well.

"Well," she said, even slower than before. "Usually successful time travelers are much older than yourself, and there can be extreme repercussions, especially on those who already have a continuous magical circuit. The time travel itself is like a curse in that it creates a magical circuit in the traveler. Understand that a magical circuit is not like a spell – spells create foundations on the ... soul, for lack of better word. A circuit alters the flow of magic in a witch or wizard, while a spell's foundation merely exists upon it, and might have a parasitic effect."

Harry closed his eyes. Perhaps the Resistance had caught on to what Malfoy was doing, or maybe Malfoy had been in on it from the first, and they had planned exactly that; they planned for him to die. They sent him back in time to die, and maybe they even hoped that he would stop himself from even being born. Perhaps the explanation of the illusion was all for not. Perhaps they meant to drive him insane. "Are the repercussions explosive?" he asked. "If the circuits meet, or cross over, or – or alter the flow conflictingly, however it works ... will it harm anyone other than the traveler?"

"That's not entirely certain, Mr. Archer," she said. "In the few documented cases, sometimes the person does not make it, and other times the traveler simply disappears. No one even knows what happened to the ones that simply disappear. We can't say if they created a paradox, or if they simply went back to their own time."

"I didn't do this on purpose," he said desperately. "I don't know what's going on. Please don't tell, Mrs. Pomfrey! I know how to handle the wolf, I've been infected for eight years, almost nine. I know a place inside Hogwarts that will hold me, I can cage myself in silver. Please don't tell anyone about the wolf, or who I really am." If she told anyone, it would be Dumbledore, and if Dumbledore discovered his duplicity, if Dumbledore thought that his lies meant he was dangerous ... this Dumbledore didn't have that softness for him that the one Harry was familiar with did. Harry hated to admit that he'd thought of Dumbledore as a very dependable grandfather, and he wasn't yet certain he could separate the two in his mind. The difference in age was a subtle difference – a difference he noticed immediately, but still a subtle one.

"You never told me who you really are," she said softly. "You only dropped hints at what you might be, and you aren't certain. Now, I will insist that you come in for check ups, twice a month. Four days before the full moon, and as soon after you regain your humanity and can make it in to see me. Mr. Archer, your body is ravaged – you've got malnutrition, you have the strain of the werewolf, and I don't even want to know why your body is riddled with the repercussions of old Cruciatus curses, and other dark magics I can only guess at. If you would be willing to come in at least once a week, it would do wonders for my peace of mind."

Illusion or not, for whatever purpose, Pomfrey's quick decision making and her taking charge and showing concern for him helped to sooth his ragged mind. "I will do my best, Madam Pomfrey," he assured her, giving the crooked thankful smiles all his dead, dead friends used to know him for.

The day ended with him alone in his room, braiding strips of cloth he'd torn off his old ragged robe and using a charm that Hermione had taught him. It could very well join the one already on his wrist, for while that one held basic protection charms, this new one made from cotton torn ragged would help people forget the last detail of what he looked like. The new bracelet wouldn't cast a glamour so much as make him unnoticeable, and it suited his purposes well. Those who already saw him would be encouraged to forget what they had seen and replace what they expected to see with what he wanted them to.

If he had to meet his family, he'd make sure they wouldn't know who he was. He had no intention of coming face-to-face with his father or Sirius, and looking like James would be too much of a lure for them to ignore. He would deprive himself of Sirius a second time so that he would have a chance to know him the first time. It caused so much pain to lose Sirius the way he did, but having him in his life was enough of a blessing to suffer that pain. Even if he had to kill Sirius. Even if he had to make stupid mistakes and suffer again, he wouldn't fight the timeline. Time happened the way it had, and he couldn't change the way it flowed out of fear that worse things would happen so that it could revert to the correct path. He would stay away from them all.

Though, he had to wonder – would Remus know enough to smell the wolf on him? He was fairly certain that Remus would only be able to smell something of wild magic, and only the wolf when transformation time came around. Then Remus would be worn out, and wouldn't notice anyway.

Just one short week until he was faced with horrors. Facing his father. Facing Sirius, young and alive, facing Remus, guiltless and cheerful, facing Peter – Peter! That traitorous rat who ... who hadn't done anything yet. Facing Lily, his mother, who had begged for death so that he might live.

He had been raised and trained to be a psychotic weapon of war. He wasn't ready for this. Hell, well adjusted people wouldn't be ready for the sort of trials he'd soon be facing, but that was the thing with Harry; even the most powerful wizards of the time acknowledged that Harry could face trials that would incapacitate more capable people and escape largely unscathed.

But even Harry Potter didn't think he could escape this one without harm.

–

_June, 2001_

Warm breath puffed into the air, the great long snout inhaling the moist air of the night.

The dark grey wolf shook itself thoroughly, brushing off the last sharp aches of the transformation. Bathed in silver moonlight that had just fallen over it and broke it's body to be remade in lupine grace, it stood proud and strong. While not a large wolf, it was obviously powerful and alert; the dark fur ruffled wildly, the direction of hair growth swirling in different directions with a mane of longer fur on it's neck that grew and fell just as haphazardly as the rest of its hair. Its strange feet -- somewhere between a wolf's paw and a clawed hand -- were rather large, hinting that the wolf hadn't reached its full intended size, but beyond that, there was nothing to suggest that the wolf would grow any larger or become any more mature.

It glanced about curiously, sniffing, dipping its nose to the ground and running in a short circle, noting all the scents. Suddenly, it lunged into motion, stretching out long legs and running effortlessly, nose to the ground and obviously hunting. It caught the scent of a rabbit, and raced off in pursuit, eager to find prey. Through the grassy woods it ran, wet nose quivering with excitement. It suddenly stopped short, crouching down and creeping forward, eyes bright and intelligent, ears standing at attention. The grass was taller here, and it carefully stalked, silent and deadly. Its keen eyes quickly found the brown rabbit with it's white fluffy tail, and it froze, watching the whiskers quiver. With a sudden thrust of it's powerful legs, it pounced.

The rabbit burst into action, racing through the grass and into the woods. It was fast, but the wolf was faster. They dodged through brambles, the low laying branches that might catch robes sliding effortlessly off the thick fur of the wolf. With a sudden lurch, gleaming white teeth flashed out and the prey didn't even get a chance to scream before it's skull was crushed in merciless jaws.

For a moment, the wolf picked fastidiously over the small offerings the tiny corpse offered, pulling the fur covered skin away to rip delicately at the lean meat. It licked the mush oozing through the crushed skull, and gobbled down the warm innards. The night air was crisp and filled the average sounds expected, the chirps of bugs and night birds, and the occasional rustle of small animals moving through the woods.

A familiar crack jerked the wolf's head up, and it stared off into the distance, ears standing straight up. It sniffed at the air, standing cautiously, trying to determine if the noise signaled friend or foe. It waited patiently, ears flickering to track the noise of people walking through the woods, and finally a wind came, and on that wind was the scent of the wizards who had Appareted. A moment passed while the wolf puzzled over the scents, and then every hair on it's body stood on end, and it bared every last tooth in its mouth as a furious snarl rumbled up in it's throat. In a flash of black and silver fur, it was racing over the ground again, heading right for the crack it heard.

Three dark cloaked figures came into view. The wolf stopped, bristling but silent as it stalked three people. The moment came, and the wolf charged. Making no sound, it dodged around one of them and leapt at the woman in the middle. She shrieked as gleaming teeth tore into her face, ripping the skin of her cheek free from her flesh. Unable to get a hold, the wolf tumbled back, and it landed on its feet and darted away from the screaming trio, swerving sharply to head back toward them, now rumbling constantly deep in it chest. A red flash of light hit it, and the spell slowed it for a moment before it shook it off.

"Bloody hell!" one of the men cried. "A werewolf!"

"Not just any," the woman said, holding her wounded face with one hand and her wand with the other. Her face was twisted and her eyes were feverishly alight, a terrible grin on her face. "It's ickle baby Potter!"

The rumbling growl rose to a full out snarl, the dark wolf snapping his jaws furiously and Avada Kedavra green eyes glimmered under the meager moonlight. It was questionable which a wizard would rather face – a Grim, that notorious herald of death, or this dark werewolf, rabid and with those Killing Curse eyes.

"Hello to you," she cooed. "You made my Master very angry with me, baby Potter! All because of that filth blood-traitor of a cousin!"

The wolf lunged forward, dodging spells flung by the three Death Eaters. Instead of going for the woman, though, it dodged around her and dove into the chest of the man behind her, much as a large black dog had once leapt into the chest of a young boy. The wolf did not underestimate it's speed, however, and when the Wizard fell, the wolf lashed out with snapping jaws and blood gushed free; the man couldn't scream. The attack was so swift that the wolf had thrown itself free of the body before it even hit the ground, and had dashed into the darkness even as spells were shot after it. Padded feet rushed over rotting leaves and fallen branches, silent in the night as it circled around the two remaining Death Eaters, panting with its blood-stained tongue rolled out from between long white fangs that dripped red saliva.

The man still standing said something quite and urgent to the woman, but she only spat disgusted curses at him, not looking. With an oath, he Disapperated with another crack, and Bellatrix screamed in fury before she spun on her heels, eyes searching the darkness and possibly more rabid than the wolf that stalked her.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are, ickle Potter," she shrilled, ignoring the gurgling of the man fast bleeding to death and drowning in his own fluid. The smell of blood was so thick in the air that even she could smell it, and it was quickly becoming the terrible stench of death. The wolf would bring it's rage down on everyone, and soon all would smell that wretched scent.

The wolf continued to circle, inhuman eyes fixed with murderous intensity on the woman. Minutes passed while she turned, searching the dark, and the wolf circled, waiting for a chance. Neither paused, and neither became anxious. It was the dangerous dance of two predators in a fight to the death. Finally, however, the woman made her mistake, and failed to turn as quickly as the wolf ran, and the wolf found itself faced with the vulnerable back, and it attacked.

Time seemed to slow as it charged from the wooded darkness, air whooshing out of its great lungs with each landing and inhaling a fresh lungful on each leap. _Once, twice, thrice_ – Its crushing jaws sunk into the flesh of her shoulder as it bared her to the ground under it's weight. The wolf shook its head furiously, ignoring the scream, and Bellatrix wand arm suddenly gave under the force. Her arm went lax, flopping freely in the joint in a way that humans were never meant to, and the wand tumbled away; the wolf spun, head out, and snatched up the wood. With a quick bite, the wand splintered. Deliberately, it turned back to her, full of rage and snarling and snapping, and drooling her blood from its mouth.

It felt like there was a snake laying in wait just under the wolf's mind, but it didn't care. Here was Bellatrix, at it's mercy.

She was pale, her eyes mad as ever. Even wounded extensively, and losing blood quickly, she cackled as she scrambled backwards slowly. "So furious, baby Potter," she mocked. "So furious! You would have served my Master so well if he had ever got his hands on you!"

The wolf wanted to leap forward and bite her, to rip open her throat and spill her blood. That darker more malicious serpentine presence made the wolf approach slowly, deliberately. With a calm and graceful bound, it leapt onto Bellatrix, and it's head flashed down like a striking snake, white fangs ripping open the flesh of her belly. She hissed and gasped at the pain, but did not scream – not after years of worse pain. With her good arm, she struck the wolf on it's delicate nose, and with a snarl, the wolf lashed out, jaws catching her upper arm and crunching through bone. She gave a short wail of pain, and then, like the feral creature she was, bit the wolf. The wolf released her arm and shook its head, snapping in her face as her teeth sliced through its ear. She collapsed back with a breathless cackle.

"Here, doggy-doggy," she giggled. "Here doggy! Good doggy!"

The wolf rumbled its fury, and then dipped its long head down purposefully, nosing through the gaping hole in her stomach. It came back out with a mouthful of long ropy entrails. Bellatrix looked at it and bared her teeth in fear and screamed and laughed, her eyes dry but bloody spittle flecking her lips. Slowly, the wolf backed up a step, pulling out the long steaming lengths of intestine. It released them without further molestation, and stepped forward again toward the shaking babbling form of the woman on the ground, unable to defend herself.

Again, that cold malicious presence held off the fury of the wolf, and the long snout descended again, pushing into the wound. There it found the tasty bits – the liver. Chucks of warm coppery meat was snatched up and gulped down.

"So cruel," Bellatrix hissed with her mad-mad eyes gleaming like a rabid dog that should have been put down long ago. "So furious ... you must have loved him very much to become such a monster."

For a long moment, the words meant nothing to the wolf. When they registered, however it was like cold water as the tone and words matched up to a memory. _'Aaaaah ... did you love him, little baby Potter?' _The wolf's head jerked up, Avada Kedavra green eyes focused on her face. There was a sting of rage, and the human beneath the wolf woke.

_Sirius_. He was killing her because she stole Sirius from him. _Oh, oh gods, Sirius. How could he kill someone like this for Sirius_? This was not how someone honored the memory of a man like Sirius – this was not the way someone revenged the death of someone like Sirius. His godfather would be _horrified_ by what Harry had become. He froze, hanging back uncertainly, surveying in horror what he'd just done to Bellatrix. He couldn't just _leave_ her like this. He didn't want to touch her – her madness must be contagious, her madness was overwhelming, but he couldn't leave her to become infected and hurt more people.

With a swift movement, he lunged forward and ripped out her throat, blood scattering everywhere and splattering across the ground and getting his fur wet and dark.

He stood uncertainly in the clearing on all four unsteady limbs. Harry always tried so desperately not to think of people who died when the transformation came. But Sirius ... remembering Sirius was always the worst. The dark wolf shook violently in the middle of a scene of carnage, aching desperately for the companionship of an enormous black dog it had never known. Finally, he sat down, and threw his head back.

The nearby muggles heard a mournful howling that echoed across the hills like a thousand voices wailing in despair, and they shivered where they sat in front of their flickering tellies.

–

_Dear Harry_

_Hermione told me that I might want to write you a last letter, just in case ... well, just in case. You know how she is. _

_I told her you won't like having that silly book in your head, but she insisted, and well ... you know Hermione. She's been right enough about a lot of things that I think this time I'll go along with it. Hopefully, once this mess is all over, she can get that bloody book out of your head compartment, and publish it, and you won't ever have to read the letters she and I are writing to you now. _

_And Harry - Hermione told me that she'd write the bloody prophecy down, the one I supposedly gave ... but I don't know how much she told you about it. I don't really understand what it means, but I know you won't like it. I'd rather tell you in person, but Hermione insisted that you only have to deal with one prophecy at a time. _

_Good luck with it all, mate. I'm not really that good with good bye letters, and Hermione must be having fits. It isn't like there is a book, or some sort of outline she can follow to write what is basically a suicide letter. It's driving her nutters. I swear she's rewritten hers at least three times now. _

_Just be careful. I don't think this prophecy is nearly as clear-cut as the first one that ruined your life. Hermione says that one is obvious, but since this prophecy had to come through me, and I'm not really a seer or anything, that it came out rather muddied. I don't like the way it sounds, it gives me the heebie-jeebies. Watch your back, okay? _

_Well, I think that's it. Sorry about the head compartment, I told her to put it someplace else, but she didn't listen. _

_- Ron_

**-- I solemnly swear I will use the Darkness for Good -- **

As always, leave an email for me to reach you at when you post comments or questions in your reviews.

I may end up going into an even more unorthedox view of werewolves. I'm trying to restrict how I portray them, since it's clear that in JKR's world, werewolves really are murderous beasts. But I don't really care for that perception, so I will try to steer it toward 'misunderstood' instead of 'vicious Dark creature', but not toward 'loveable fluff' either.

**Posted**: Sept 25 2007  
**Next Update Expected**: Oct 1st 2007


	4. Days Ending in Y

**Chapter Four:** Days Ending in Y -- Are the Days That Harry Regrets the Most  
In which Harry reflects upon the people he'll meet, the Ministry comes to visit, and he remembers when Remus came to save him and told him he didn't understand love.

You're only as sick as your secrets.  
- Author Unknown

---

**-- Accio Harry Archer's Diary -- **

_1975_

Over the years, a great many things about Harry had changed. One thing that hadn't was that he found books ultimately frustrating.

Harry snorted to himself in disgust as he threw his book onto his bed and moodily began to drag his cloth bracelets around his wrist. Raw spots would appear again in no time, but he couldn't bring himself to be concerned with that. He was too busy being displeased that he wouldn't be able to breeze through his classes like he thought he could. Apparently, while learning how to survive a full-out war, and then a life on the run, he had suffered enough to shake the more innocent magics from his mind. He had instincts, and to borrow the muggle idea, he knew how to ride the bike. He had the knowledge, and he could do anything a professor could do – he just couldn't explain it, and most of the work assigned in school required exactly that. He didn't understand how magic worked, it just did; it was pure will and intention that he shaped his spells with, not formulae and puzzle pieces carefully fit together.

Honestly, the latter method was the most efficient manner of spell-spinning for most people. Harry was simply weird. His odd magical pattern allowed Lily's magic to protect him from Voldemort's killing curse and that weird magic allowed that Unforgivable Dark magic into him to light his eyes that terrible neon Avada Kedavra green, and it gave him wild magic and a will that effortlessly shaped his spells into worn paths with little to no waste and sometimes without even the conscious thought and intention. Terrible things happened when Harry was upset.

He left his room with little thought, only a vague gnawing hunger in his belly that aimed his steps toward the kitchen. He was intent on feeding himself, for it often calmed the wolf, and right now both needed calming. It was close to the full moon, after all, just six days away, and he'd made plans to lock himself up with silver.

The house elves had been somewhat surprised to see him, but eager as ever to appease his wishes. He found himself in a corner on a stool, chewing on a sandwich filled with some sort of meat that landed heavily in his stomach and made him feel good. Shortly, Dumbledore assured him, the Ministry would write back with either an acceptance letter allowing Harry to join the Wizard world officially, or to warn them that someone would be coming to question him closely.

Never mind that. He had other things that he need to consider. Other more dangerous things, because while he'd come to intellectual terms with having to come face-to-face with his father and his friends and all the dear people who had long since died in Harry's time, he hadn't come to emotional terms with it, and he needed to, desperately. A surprised and confused werewolf was fun for nobody.

His father, first and foremost. For the first time in his short but miserable life, he was going to finally meet his father. It was surprisingly hard to feel emotional about that, though. James Potter had just been another name for so long, and with some of Snape's memories, borrowed from a pensieve and flittering about his own, it was hard to be much more than distant while he assessed the situation, cold and analytical. Cruel, brash, loud, in control – that was his father. It was genes, only genes, and why in the bloody hell would anyone think he'd be proud they said he was like his father?

Sirius Black had always loved his father, though, and his stomach did a flip flop and his chest threatened to choke him. Sirius – Sirius who spent forever and a day in Azkaban for something he could never have committed, and then he died and it was Harry's stupid mistakes that did it, so of course it was hisfault. Sirius who changed into dogs that could be hugged less awkwardly than a man, and who chewed ferally on bones, and grinned with a rugged rakish charm. Sirius who had never shaken that terrible hunched walk, and moved and gestured with arms still dragging with invisible horrible weight from invisible dreaded chains. Sirius who, even after that infamous forever and a day, still had a brilliant loving smile and a lighthearted endearing word to share. Sirius, who even though he'd grown haggard and his hair thin and lank and lifeless, still acted vain and preened and strutted like the newest Seventeen Witch model, right up until he tumbled backwards into that veil.

And Remus Lupin who had held Harry back from diving into that veil after him. Remus, who gave him chocolates, and tolerated his snatching hands reaching into coat pockets and accepted mumbled excuses – "You always have the best chocolate" – with a warm if vague smile, and those tired strained eyes. Remus who helped train him, Remus who had always sent him reassuring notes and suffered his rages and suffered his sorrows, Remus who bit him and that was always ever hisfault. Remus, who had left him alone with his affliction, who had never seen him through his first transformation or had ever offered guidance. Remus, who he had betrayed by being so stupid as to get in the wolf's way. Remus, with the guilty eyes and shoulders that sagged with exhaustion and shame, with slow shuffling steps and the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Remus, wonderful Remus, who Harry had never wanted to disappoint.

Never disappointed him the way that Peter Pettigrew had. Wormtail the traitor. Pettigrew the Gryffindor who woke Harry up and made him realize that that everything was so very stupid, and Moody was right, he couldn't trust anyone. Pettigrew the traitor that made stupid mistakes and cursed them all to that darkened hell of a future. Pettigrew, the reason Hermione was dead red dead on that field and Ron was snapping snarling insane and couldn't be approached. Peter Pettigrew, who was the first that the wolf went after that first night he transformed, and who was the last one to fall under those snapping slavering jaws all those years later, right before the Resistance caught him. The wolf never forgave, and it never forgot, and Harry might have never wanted to see that traitor again, but the wolf would have never rested until his heart's blood stained his fangs.

The sandwich tasted stale in his mouth at the remembrance of traitor's blood. The pleasant weight in this stomach turned heavy and uncomfortable. In four days time, he'd have to meet them all, and live with them, and smile and pretend everything was okay and that he didn't know their secrets and that Remus never bit him and that Pettigrew would never betray them all. And if the Resistance wanted to shatter his mind, they knew exactly what they were doing, if not that he was just stubborn enough to play it cool. And if this was all just some hiccup that sent him back in time? Then shouldn't he be looking for a way back home?

The thought wrangled a harsh bark of scorn from his throat. A way back home for what? With all the Death Eaters and the Resistance wandering around, he had no home. Sirius was dead, Hermione was dead, Dumbledore was dead, Ron was insane and Remus was gone. Everyone was dead or gone. He might as well make himself comfortable in this terrible illusion, or this horrible mistake. He had to take precautions, though. If it was possible that he was really trapped in another time not his own, then he had to learn more about it, so he could see if it was even possible to change anything. The bracelets he wore should at least make it easier on him, with protection spells and those notice-me-not-too-terribly-much spells.

And in four days, he'd be face-to-face with his parents, Lily and James and everyone. What did he know about them in this time, at this age? Remus was the werewolf, and the others became Animagi to support their friend during the moon. Moony, Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail.

He breathed sharply, a flash of alarm twisting his stomach. Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfo - _bloody hell_. They had that map, and it was all for not, and it was over and he was discovered. He chewed his lip in agitation. The Marauder's Map would so clearly give him away. Then, he could breathe once more; he knew quite a few charms that could fool the spell used to create the Map, and a few choices were running through his head. After Remus had lectured him about the Map being a guide straight to him, he had Hermione help him find ways to fool the Map. Still, no matter which spell he chose, he'd have to get his hands on it.

The food was useless now, so he thanked the elves one last time and began the long trek to his room. He was uneasy, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sit still. He made an excursion into the bathroom, and flung some cold water into his face. The flicker before him of his reflection caught his eye, and he paused, lifting his head slowly to stare.

Despite all his power, and despite all his stalking about and swing his weight and scowling and frowning and making people uneasy, Harry wasn't a large person by a long stretch. He was slight – even more so in this terrible young body – with skin a warm tan and that shaggy black hair that fell over his forehead and into his eyes and covering his scar. Under the hair and normally behind lens, neon eyes stared back at him. Perhaps that was why he wore the glasses he hadn't needed anymore. His younger body didn't have the spell that corrected his sight, but his elder body had, and he'd kept his glasses to mute his eyes and fool the enemy. It was a simple charm in the lenses to correct the bend of light, and it had been just as easy to alter the charm when he'd woken up in Hogwarts hall so that he could see again. He'd never reached five foot ten, and all his hair and all his expressions had made him seem so young, all to fool the enemy. Fool the enemy – slight and graceful like a deer, with all the uncontrolled fury of a dragon and the cunning unforgiving vengeance of the wolf.

_Poetic thoughts_, a corner of him muttered. He used to have such a fascination with all the magical creatures, though. Now that he actually was one, they failed to hold his attention. Twenty-six years of experience crammed into a sixteen year old body. Fifteen years of learning to fight tooth and nail for the very life he cursed was strangled into this young-young body. This was deadly grace that was working on a younger frame that lacked nine tenths the scar tissue and half-healed bones and ligaments that his elder body had. It also lacked four inches of height and length.

Of course, to any who saw him, his hair would melt to an everyday brown and his eyes would fade to an overcast gray, his skin fading into a less noticeable peach and his frame filling out. Gone from memory would be the stark haunted hunted look in his eyes, forgotten would be the sleek trained efficiency of his movements. All the charms spared was his personality and his expressions. People wouldn't forget or blur anything he said or anything he did. Just his appearance leaked from clarity. It was somehow comforting, after being a person recognized for what he looked like all his life. It would be his convictions that made or broke friendships.

Then again, he had a rather irritable temper, and a tendency not to explain himself. Harry had the suspicion that he'd be on his own most of the time, but that wasn't terribly distressing. He wasn't the easiest person to deal with, and he knew it. It wasn't like being a werewolf made it any easier, either. Remus had always been mellow enough, but Harry had never been so gentle. He'd had no chance, no hiding what he was. The entire Wizarding world knew, and he couldn't attempt to change people's mind by example the way that Remus always had.

In less than a week, he'd have to worry about all the other people, and all the other children. He'd have to worry about people who didn't know him as The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Defeat-Voldemort, who didn't know that he was a werewolf, who didn't know anything about him and wouldn't care. How should he react to them? He was so used to ignoring stares and shouldering off questions he wasn't sure what to do when he was getting neither.

He really should go talk to Dumbledore about how they were going to introduce him to the school at large, he thought as he fitted his glasses with transfigured wire frames back onto his face. It wasn't every day that a sixth year showed up and was sorted in, after all, and that would draw some attention.

Once back in the Headmaster presence, however, Harry reverted back to his school-years self – quiet, easily overwhelmed, and susceptible to suggestion. Dumbledore decided all on his own that Harry would simply wait by the doors, attempt to blend in with the students, steal a seat at the table, and wait for Dumbledore to announce him. At this, Harry objected. Did everyone really need to know about him? Honestly, they could keep it in Gryffindor, couldn't they? No one would notice other than them, any only them because he would eat at their table and sleep in their dorms. Luckily, the old man agreed with a small smile that he would take a Prefect aside and have them explain it to the house. The Headmaster made some noise about how he'd forgotten that Harry was from a small village, and apologized for getting carried away. "The school could use some news that wasn't the death or dropping out of students," he explained.

Harry didn't care; he wouldn't be made a spectacle and pawn for Dumbledore in any time – not anymore.

The night passed slowly, a crawling pace that Harry was unfamiliar with. In the morning, he got dressed in his poor ragged robes. The house elves had done their best to clean and fix them, but they still hung far too loose on his frame and though the small holes had been patched, the gapping holes weren't capable of being mended; the smell of death seemed past even the powers of the elves to remove. His sneakers, barely kept together with duct tape and spells, were as dirty as ever and smelling of moss and dirt and rot, and he clopped without apology down the halls to the kitchen.

He had spurned every chance to eat in the Great Hall with the teachers. Harry had his own schedule of eating, and no one seemed ready to argue with him about it yet. That was just as well, since it was likely they would stare and frown and wish he'd eat more when he simply couldn't.

This morning there was toast and porridge to eat, and he was in the middle of washing it all down with a glass of milk in a funny flavor that disinclined him to inquire on it's origins when the painting swung open, and Dumbledore stepped in followed closely by a witch.

"There you are, dear boy," the headmaster said warmly, somewhere between a sparkle and a twinkle. "Found your way to the kitchen, did you?"

"Yes sir," he answered amicably. "I asked an elf."

"You are welcome to eat at the Hall," the old man said.

Harry shrugged sheepishly. "It's really big and empty, and no one my age is staying here. I like it down here with the house elves."

"Of course," Dumbledore said. He turned half way toward the witch who was eyeing Harry. "Miss Beltine? This is Harry Archer, the young man I wrote you about. Harry, this is Miss Hagitha Beltine."

"Hello, Miss Beltine," he said politely, setting the goblet of milk aside. To a certain stretch, she reminded him of Narcissa, only more down to earth and more harried than regal and stuck-up. Hagitha seemed more likely to walk around with her nose in the air because she had a neck problem that distressed her, instead of because she was trying not to inhale the same air as the 'less noble' wizards and witches and 'dirty' muggleborn and half-bloods. "What can I do for you?"

"We could go to your quarters, or an empty classroom if you'd rather, Mr. Archer," she said primly. "I have some questions I'd like to ask you, so perhaps a less inhabited area would be more to your liking."

Harry quirked an eyebrow at her way of talking, but rose to his feet. "Alright," he said demurely. "A classroom is probably closer. Headmaster, sir? Could you show us where a suitable one is?"

"It would be my pleasure," he said. "Please come this way. Miss Beltine – may I call you Hagitha? Very well – Miss Beltine, I hear you graduated from Grindimuck Private Academy, did you not? Yes, I thought so. I'm quite familiar with Professor Reichford – did you have any classes taught by him?"

"Ancient Runes," she answered with a sort of strained dignity. Harry's mouth quirked.

"Yes, I see," Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully as he opened a door. "Most curious, I do believe that Hephifestus never much appreciated Ancient Runes, which should just show you what can happen over the years." He beamed at Hagitha, who gave him a cold look with her ice gray eyes.

"Thank you for escorting us to the classroom," she said with an air of barely restrained hostility. Perhaps if Harry was actually a teenager, he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between her normal prickly self and this very irritated one, but the wolf knew a cornered animal when it saw one, and Harry got the very clear impression of it's mouth falling open and the long tongue lolling out with amusement.

"Oh, no problem," the old man twinkled. "Now, Harry, I shall be in my office, so you two can come find me once you are finished here." With that, he turned and left the room, humming to himself.

Harry might resent much of the Headmaster's actions and habits, but it was easier to smile these days now that he wasn't such an immediate pawn. That, and also because Harry _understood_ being playful when the dark times seemed to make everyone so very strained and unhappy.

"This way," Hagitha demanded, striding toward the empty teacher's desk. She swiftly sat in the chair behind it, and gestured Harry to pull up a chair to the front of it, which he did, the strong flavor of amusement still tickling his brain. "Alright, Mr. Archer," she said, picking through the papers she had set out in front of her. "Mr. Dumbledore informed us a day ago that you quiet literally showed up on his doorstep."

"Something like that," he answered blandly. It was hard not to smile or smirk out of a sheer lack of levity in the situation. He blamed the Headmaster for playfully baiting the woman – likely out of boredom – as he lead them to this room; he wondered if the room was watched. "It was actually a hall not far from his office."

"I see. He mentioned that you have no information regarding how you made it inside the castle?"

"Right," he said with a nod, and that was honest truth. "Like I told him, some people had caught me and I don't think they meant to send me here, but this is where I woke up." If this was just an illusion, it was likely the potion instructing his mind, and if it were time travel ... well, that didn't explain how he got in Hogwarts anyway.

"And do you have any clue as to these people are, or why they wanted to harm you?"

Of course he did. "Miss Beltine, they were Dark wizards," he lied with an awkward smile. The Resistance was stupid, but their tenants demanded kindness and Light; Malfoy might have been hiding among them, but he doubted many other Dark wizards managed the same. "They had glamours, so I couldn't tell who was which, and why do any of the wizards who seem so thrilled when muggles start dying want to hurt a half-blood?"

"I see," she murmured, and flipped through some more papers. "Would you submit to a blood test, so that we might see if you are under any spells yourself?"

"No," Harry said without hesitation. "I won't submit to my blood going anywhere other than in my veins. We were taught in the village that we should never allow anyone to take our blood." He himself had gotten that quirk all by himself. Fourth year had been good for nothing if he hadn't learned to be so hateful of blood.

A pale eyebrow arched. "I see," she repeated. There it was – she thought he was doing it because he knew that a test would betray his Dark leanings and ill intentions.

"However," he said slowly, attempting to unmake the damage. "I would be willing to undergo a spell that would test for Unforgivables, such as the Imperius curse, or other unlawfuls that would put an compulsion on me."

"Very well," she said, her expression smoothing. "Once that we are absolutely certain that you don't present any danger to Hogwarts, you will be allowed to attend regularly."

He smiled, as it seemed appropriate. He was doing his utter best to be completely mild since this was a Ministry witch. He did not want to draw their attention if this wasn't an illusion, and he didn't want to cause trouble even if it was. His wand hand twitched as a light came on in the hollow dusty halls of his mind.

He had lost his mind.

Harry struggled not to allow his pleased smile to become ironic and crooked as he followed the witch to Dumbledore's office. She was intent on getting a wizard there who could check up on him, and he supposed that made sense. This was before the prophecy, after all, and it was likely that everyone thought that Dumbledore was their only hope against Voldemort. The old man was just capricious enough to insist that Harry was no harm to them, so they had to work around his wishes, and that meant no spiriting Harry off.

It was strange that the Headmaster's head strong attitude was helping rather than hindering him this time around.

–

_December, 1998_

The shack was small and rickety. It was like every shack that Harry had ever known – like the shack on the rock in the sea, and like the Shrieking Shack as well. The windows were boarded up, and the furniture had been broken before they transfigured it all back together. The shack was not but three hundred feet from a small town that was mostly wizarding folk, but still Hermione wove all of her wonderful enchantments around it so that even those who were magical would have a hard time finding the shack. Only those who meant no harm and were friends of theirs could find it.

There was a mad pounding at the door, like whoever was on the other side depended on the door opening. Hermione was the first one up, her wand in hand and her eyes flashing dangerously. Harry was stuffed into his corner, unable to sleep as tightly wound as he was with his wand in hand, but he was slower to reach his feet. Ron was asleep upstairs, exhausted, as he had been the one the two had to use to wind the enchantments. Ron had more magical energy than he had ever known what to do with, but he didn't have the skill that Harry did, and he didn't have the careful complexity of mind to spin the power in new ways. It was dangerous to use him that way, but he and Hermione had ganged up against Harry and insisted. If they were going to survive the world outside Hogwarts, they had to use whatever they could however they could.

The pounding on the door didn't let up. Harry jerked his head toward it, and rose his wand to the ready position, prepared to cast the nastiest curses he knew. Hermione cautiously approached the door, mouthing dangerous hexes. It wouldn't be the first time the clauses of the door let someone find it who wasn't searching for Harry, but attacked when they saw who was living there, or other people turned hostile on Harry after meeting him. If that was the case once more, whoever was on the other side would suffer horribly before either of the two would remove the jinxes and then move on to interrogation – Mad-Eye Moody style.

How Hermione had turned green all over when Harry relayed the lesson to her. They had decided that Ron might not want to know, not as close-minded as he was. Ron was temperamental and as changeable as the wind in times of peace, but a stout and loyal friend when it mattered; still, Harry couldn't forget all the times that Ron had turned his back on him over a misunderstanding, or the times he had reacted with pure unreasoning horror to a revelation. Harry and Hermione had taken Remus' condition in stride, but Ron had reacted as if slapped – or told that Remus had murdered before and intended to again that night.

And they say that if you speak of the Devil, he will appear.

Remus crash in through the open door. Hermione shut it with a slam, and Harry threw himself over the limp shaking body of his favorite professor. "Remus!" he hissed desperately, rubbing at the soaking clothes before reason returned to him and he grabbed his wand to cast drying charms. "Remus, what's wrong?"

"Harry," Remus rasped, pulling himself off the floor and gripping his arm desperately. "I came to warn you – the Resistance is making a sweep in this direction. It's too late to run –" he broke off into a coughing fit.

"Shh," Hermione hissed, even as she jerked a cabinet open and fetched the potions case she had. "Here, drink this – it's Pepper-up potion."

Remus took the phial without complaint and swallowed it all at once. He thanked her, then turned back to Harry, who had not yet let go. "Harry, you have to hide," he said, struggling to his feet. He looked exhausted, like death warmed over with his sunken luminous eyes and hair hanging limply even after being dried. He stalked toward the stairs, but his body clearly ached, and he limped as well; Hermione was chasing after him, sorting through the potion's case and pulling out healing potions at the same time she cast healing spells and 'Finite' at him. "Unfortunately, the Weasley twins' Illumining Glasses make Disillusioning unreliable at best, and with your cloak gone ... I'll lend what aid I can if they find us." He turned back and headed toward Harry, still largely ignoring Hermione, except when she pressed a potion directly into his hand.

But Harry was distracted, running his eyes over the older man. "Remus," he said softly. "Where is Tonks?" The man froze, a blank and terrible look settling on his face. Harry immediately lunged forward, wrapping his arms around him. "Merlin, Remus, I'm sorry," he whispered. Over the man's shoulder, he mouthed 'the mob' at Hermione, and her face both lit up with understanding, and fell as tears gathered in her eyes. They had both noticed the mob earlier that evening, but neither had thought a thing about it. If the mob had gotten Tonks, then it was likely she didn't live anymore. How wretched for poor Remus ...

"There is no time for that," Remus said, gently pulling Harry's arms down. He patted the teen as if he were still a thirteen year old child, stepping around him and peering out one of the gapes between the boards on the window. "Harry, don't worry about that," he said softly, glancing back. "I loved Tonks, but it's a different sort of pain."

But Harry didn't understand how it could be.

–

_Harry,_

_I'm leaving this all to you, in case nothing changes in time. You'll need it more that I do, and I figured that I would have more piece of mind if you were reading out of my book instead of some Half-Blood Prince (You know it serves you right that book belonged to Professor Snape.) _

_I've saved the letters I could, and I've written down everything that I've found out since I bound the book. I'd rather stuff your head full of an entire library of books, if I thought it would do any good, but I know that this really is better. You never did like to go through the library, and I suppose I should thank you for sneaking about so tolerantly when I told you to go find a book in the Restricted section. _

_There are so many things that I suddenly wished I'd talked to you about, but I suppose that's my own mistake for letting myself talk me out of it. I didn't want to bring up old wounds just to satisfy my curiosity, so I won't talk about those things now. Please take care of yourself. You have an entire century ahead of you, if you care to live that long. It will take more than Dark Lords and idiots who don't know any better to get rid of you, Harry. _

_Be safe. _

_- Hermione the Hangman_

**-- I solemnly swear I will use the Darkness for Good -- **

As always, leave an email for me to reach you at when you post comments or questions in your reviews.

**Posted**: Oct 1 2007  
**Next Update Expected**: Oct 8 2007


	5. Tempered Steel

**Chapter Five:** Tempered Steel -- Harry Knows the Fire Well

In which Harry finds out more about what has happened to him, and he comes to recognize things in others and himself.

The past is strapped to our backs. We do not have to see it; we can always feel it.

- Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960

---

**-- Accio Harry Archer's Diary -- **

_1975_

Despite his rather startling conclusion earlier that he really was quite insane instead of just on the edge of being so, Harry kept himself reigned in and the wolf was politely silent in his ear as he sat in the chair before the wizard running his wand over him. It remembered Harry of the few times he'd watched a movie with Hermione, and the muggles ran electronic devices over the hero of the film before they got to confront an old nemesis in jail. Harry had never gone to Azkaban to visit his.

The old wizard finally stood back, sitting heavily in his chair with his hands on his knees. "Well, young man," he said in a creaky voice. "You don't have the Imperius curse on you currently, but you do have a few compulsion jinxes still working. There is evidence that there are some other spells that have been inexpertly removed." He paused and turned to Hagitha. "I would like to speak to Mr. Harry Archer alone, with patient confidentiality. I'll sign the paper for the Ministry after I get done here."

Hagitha arched her eyebrow in that careful way she had when Harry had spoken to her. "Very well," she said, stepping outside and closing the door.

"Sir?" Harry asked, very concerned. If Pomfrey recognized that he was a werewolf during a routine exam, could this examiner do the same and find the wolf, or the supposed magical current that betrayed how he was misplaced in time? And if he knew Harry was the wolf, then would he have to register with the Ministry? Harry dreaded admitting his condition to the Ministry – his pack had _warned_ him, and told him horror stories of what happened before they abandoned humanity.

"Mr. Archer, there are a few things that I'd like to speak with you about, but let's start with those compulsion spells," he said, with a small smile. "For civility's sake, you may call me Philbrook."

"Alright," he said cautiously.

"You have three existing compulsion jinxes. One compels you to speak truthfully to the Headmaster of Hogwarts. You must understand when I say truthfully, I do mean to the full extent that you feel, so that you would not be able to lie to the Headmaster without some hesitation, and you would find it hard to mask your emotions. Spells as I read them are difficult to put into a simple sentence, so forgive me if I ramble. There is also another that would make you seek out danger. This is a rather dangerous compulsion, so I don't think I even need to ask if you want this one removed. The last surviving jinx relates to you actually being in danger, and was cast by someone I must assume cared for you – perhaps your mother? It has a feminine touch, and should drive you to alert others when you might be going into a dangerous situation, and to seek out some sort of aid if you are ever injured."

But that couldn't have been his mother. He knew only too well that he had held off telling anyone for some time after the whole incident surrounding Sirius' death. "No," he said faintly. "That was one of my best friends. She was a brilliant witch." He frowned. "But you said these spells couldn't be summed up simply, and the second you mentioned, the danger seeking one ... What exactly does that one do?"

Philbrook frowned softly. "Well, it is in effect a danger seeking compulsion. I should have said that it was more of a drive for you to seek out darkness and attack it. If I am correct in reading this spell, you don't even have to be aware of it; the spell itself has a clause that will actually search out the evil for you, and then impels you toward it and to destroy it."

A weapon. _Only ever a weapon_. "Ah. And the spells that are gone now?"

"I can not tell what some of them are. The tracking spell that someone else removed for you – poorly, I add – has been patched back together a few times, but has been disabled by what I assume was your own magic. There is evidence of a number of other small jinxes and minor spells that your own unconscious magic has torn through. This is not an uncommon occurrence in children your age, of course. As the body grows through puberty, the magic flexes and grows as well. Spells have been known to be torn out by their roots due to these growth spurts and stretches, though it always leaves a permanent history of magic behind, much like even healed bones have evidences of the breaks they recovered from."

"So there is no way to tell what these spells might have been?" Harry asked.

"I'm afraid not. All spells that attach to the body that way have the same base of construction. As far as that goes, I'd like to talk to you about that most unusual scar on your forehead."

"What about it?" Harry inquired cautiously.

"Well," Philbrook said, appearing slightly flustered. "It's dark magic. Dark with a capital 'D', at that."

"I am somewhat aware of that," he said dryly. "I had a very misfortunate encounter with the dark wizard who killed my parents – or so everyone tells me."

"Then you are familiar with the mental link that survives there."

"Very. I supposed you noticed the rather tangled network that surrounds the link as well."

"I did."

The two wizards stared at each other for a moment. Then the old man ventured, "Occlumency?"

Harry shook his head. "I learned, but it didn't work. The link is too different from any known magics for Occlumency to affect."

Philbrook reached forward and set a wrinkled claw on Harry's hand, and Harry allowed him. "I am very sorry, then." He leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. "Are you aware of the blood based charms your parents set on you?"

"Somewhat," he allowed. "I was told that as long as I could call a place that my mother's blood lived home, I couldn't be hurt there."

"That is not quite what I speak of," he denied. "That is likely no longer working, and it isn't the sort of magic I could see anyway. I'm talking about something more than just your mother, I'm speaking of something both your parents did to save you."

"My parents?" Harry echoed in confusion. "I was told that my Mum's love saved me ..."

"Well, it did, in a way. It's an old, blood based ritual. It's quite illegal as far as the ministry is concerned, due to the ingredients, but since your parents are dead, there is little they can do. Your mother must have talked your father into helping with the ritual, you see. It takes the mother to both start and complete it; the whole thing only exists because the children of wizards are precious things. The whole purpose of it is that in the case that one or both parents should die, their child would have two deaths to survive. You have one more death to survive before anything is final."

And that, _that_, Harry realized, had to be the reason that his mother had begged Voldemort so desperately to kill her instead. She wanted to make utterly certain that Harry would survive. She hadn't ever even known if James was dead, and she wanted to make sure that Harry would live beyond a doubt.

"My boy?" Philbrook inquired, frowning in concern. "Are you quite alright?"

"I hear my parents," he said faintly. "When dementors come near – I hear my mother. She hadn't even known for certain my father was dead, and she – she asked him to kill her instead."

Philbrook looked grave. "Or otherwise she was uncertain she would die, and that would mean leaving you with only your own death to have. In either case, your parents wanted you to live, Harry. No matter what the cost to them."

This was not a warming thought. Harry supposed, however, that he'd much rather be living without his parents, than have his mother living without his father or him. He knew how painful it was to live without family and love, and he was only grateful that she didn't have to live it like he did.

"There is one last thing, my boy," Philbrook said, shifting in his chair. "I am rather impressed with the spell work. It seems that someone has not only created a sort of expansion space for you, but also locked it tight so that only you can access it with a specific password."

"What?" Harry demanded, bewildered. "Where? How?"

"I've never seen anything quite like it," the old man said. "It's similar to the charms that wizards used to magically pull off the 'slight of hand' card tricks that the muggles learned to do. I don't know if you're familiar with it, but there is a muggle trick of producing a coin supposedly from behind someone's ear. This slight of hand has its origins in a magical spell. Some centuries ago, it was a fashion rage to have the spell cast so that a wizard could quite literally pull his money in his purse out from behind his ear. This version of it is quite more complex, and I dare say that I don't think its money you'll be pulling out, since it has a lock on it. Whoever cast this on you wanted to make certain you would never lose the contents."

"Is there anyway I can find out what it is?" Harry demanded, very squeamish at the idea of something living in a magically created compartment inside his head.

"The only way to do that is to figure out the password and to reach behind your ear to pull it out – the right one, my boy, not the left." Philbrook smiled at him. "Whoever did it was likely someone you trust explicitly, and had quite a mind for spells."

Who – _Hermione_, he realized. He breathed slightly easier knowing it was she who had done it, but not very easy. _She had made a compartment in his head to hide stuff in!_ "Is that all?"

"That's all of it, though 'all' might seem to make light of the situation," the old man warned. "Normally, I'd offer you a chance to get all of the old framework of jinxes and such removed, but as I am aware of your odd circumstances, I can only offer to remove the truth-telling and the danger-seeking jinx free of charge."

"Why those two?" Harry asked, confused. "Why not the last one as well?"

"Well, because the last one is actually a good charm for any one to have, underaged or auror. The first, however, violates your common rights as a wizard. Only wizards and witches on trial, or in jail are allowed to have those inflicted on them without permission, and only those who are permanently jailed are put under a self-sustaining one, such as the one you wear. I can not leave it without giving you a choice and still retain my spell-scanning license. The second one because you are still underaged, and I can not as an adult in good conscious allow you to be in danger."

"But if I wanted to keep both, I could?"

Philbrook frowned deeply. "I would much rather remove the dangerous one, Mr. Archer. You are not a knight, nor an auror to seek out the evil in the world and destroy it."

_But I was a wizard practically born to be a weapon against it_. "I am well trained, sir. And I would have the last to keep me from too much harm. Besides, wouldn't it be better if everyone was warned – even by proxy – that there was something dangerous or dark in the area?"

"I am sorry, Mr. Archer, but I will not allow you to keep that compulsion, and the more you argue the fact with me, the more I am certain that its for the best," Philbrook said, sitting back with a deep disapproving frown.

"Then could you change it? Alter it so that it will still search out dark things, but compel me to warn someone instead? Would that be feasible?"

"I suppose I could link it to the 'then' clause of the last jinx," he said slowly.

"It would make the school safer," Harry bargained. "So it would sort of be like casting a detection spell on all the students."

The old man crooked a bushy eyebrow at him. "Quiet the hero, aren't you?"

Harry twisted his face into a look of unfeigned distaste. "Please don't call me that. I was sort of singled out where I lived, and I don't want that anymore. I want a fresh start."

"Completely understandable. So, do you want any of these jinxes removed?"

"The first one, yes, and the second altered like I said. The third can stay." Harry would never destroy something that Hermione had gifted him out of love because she wanted him safe. _Why did all the girls in his life sacrifice themselves for him? Why_?

Harry sat politely still as the old wizard mumbled his spells, twisting and pulling his wand through the air around Harry as if it were a knitting hook. He didn't feel significantly different, and when Philbrook was finished, he dared to ask a question. "Sir, what does the left over foundations do? Do they hinder my spells or power at all?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. You might feel as if you've gotten a burden off your chest after they're removed, but it doesn't really change anything besides to make your magical aura personal. Even if I removed them, there would still be clear evidence where they were. A wizard's aura is like his finger prints in a way, though the mended bones analogy might be more strictly correct."

Philbrook moved away from Harry, going to the desk off to the side and collecting papers and quills. "I believe we are finished here, Mr. Archer. I'll go outside promptly and sign the papers for the Ministry, and you have a good time at Hogwarts, you hear?"

"I will, but, sir, there is one more thing I'd like to ask you," he said, following Philbrook to the door. When the old man paused to look at him expectantly, Harry continued. "Was there anything else unusual about my ... me?"

Philbrook frowned. "I couldn't say, and it's not my job. I can only scan for actual intentional spell structure. Any strange quirks that your power might have is something I couldn't see, and any unintentional spells formed by wild magic, either your own or the of the people around you, I can not see."

And at last, Harry breathed silently in relief. "Thank you anyway, sir."

"Not a problem, young man," Philbrook said as he opened the door. Harry followed him to a desk, where Philbrook searched through the papers and then wrote something on one and quickly signed his name. He turned and handed Harry the paper. "Here you go. Hagitha should be down the hall, third door on the left, and she needs this before she can Floo you back to Hogwarts."

Harry obligingly trotted down the hall like an eager sixteen year old might, never mind that technically, he was supposed to be fifteen. The thought of a guardian put in charge of him filled him with alarm, if only because he had always had the worst experiences with people who were in charge of his welfare. He knocked sharply on the door that Philbrook had indicated.

"Come in," Hagitha's voice called.

Harry opened the door and approached her desk, paper in hand. "Philbrook gave me this to hand over to you," he explained. On the way over, he hadn't stopped himself from looking it over, and was relieved with the 'proved to be harmless in intent toward the average witch or wizard' statement.

"Philbrook?" she echoed with an arched eyebrow. "Strange man," she muttered under her breath as she scanned the paper and nodded sharply. "Very good, come this way."

He followed her, unusually docile, over to the fireplace, and willingly enough tossed the Floo powder into the flames and stepped through to Dumbledore's office.

"You got lucky, Albus," Hagitha growled. "The boy tested clean. There isn't a smear on his name, so you can do as you wish. The Ministry will insist that you have the boy a guardian by summer vacation, of course. Have fun."

"What a pleasant girl," Dumbledore said with his twinkling eyes as she disappeared into the green flame. Harry stared at the Headmaster uncertainly for a long moment before taking note of the wands the old man had spread out over his desk. They were all old, and obviously worn. "Please take a seat," Dumbledore said, noticing his gaze and gesturing to the chair waiting in front of his desk.

Harry sat down slowly, eyeing the old man with no little trepidation and making no attempt to hide it. "Yes, sir?" he inquired with wolf-born caution.

"Now that you've been cleared by the Ministry, I have brought out these wands for you to chose from," the headmaster said. "Please chose as well as you can under the circumstances, and take good care of the one you chose."

He sighed slightly, leaning forward as he reached out and ran his fingers over the wands that Dumbledore had presented him with. There was seven of them, and the sizes ranged widely, as did the cores and woods. His lips were twisted into a grimace as not a one of them particularly cared to work with him. Finally, he grabbed one at random. It didn't matter which one he took, after all, as they all promised to be insufferable.

"Birch with a core of Ashwinder Ash," Dumbledore said, gathering up the others. "Springy with a complete length of eight and a half inches. Very good choice, Harry."

"My wand was made of holly," he sighed wistfully. "Phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches, supple."

"Most curious, and most powerful," the old man said, nodding. "But this wand should work well enough, even if it isn't your own."

To be honest, Harry had noticed that the Yew was a little less resistant to his grip, but he had such an abhorrence for that wood that he couldn't have stood it. Either the wand would fight him, or he'd fight the wand, and with that in mind, the birch wasn't terrible. Five days, and everyone would be here, and in seven days, the full moon. What lovely luck he had.

"All that's left is my robes, I suppose," he said, turning to look up at the old man. "Professor McGonagall has already given me my school books, even though I wasn't there to help her carry them, and now I've got my wand."

"Quite right. Though I admit that I overlooked the small matter of a familiar. Did you have one in your village?"

Hedwig was gone and dead and torn to utter pieces by some coward in the dark, one night that he had sent her out to deliver a warning to the Weasleys. He blinked. "No. Do you think I should get one?"

"You might want to consider it. The school will require reimbursement, same as the robes, but the choice is always available."

Harry shook his head. "No, if I need to send notes, I can use the school owls," he decided. "No use in trying to saddle a poor creature with a sixth year."

"Well, if that is how you wish to do it," Dumbledore said with the rare shrug. "I can not personally escort you down to Diagon Ally, so this time you will have to go with our groundskeeper. Ruberus Hagrid does get so antsy before the children come, so I'm sure he wouldn't mind taking you to get your robes."

"Today?" Harry asked, surprised. He cast about – vainly – for some way to tell the time, but no window proved willing to cooperate. He was fairly certain it was late, though.

"No, it will have to wait until the morning. I do apologize for you having to spend so long in your old robes, and I hope the house elves have been taking as much care with them as possible."

"Of course they have," he snapped back, automatically. "They always do their best at everything, so why wouldn't they?"

Dumbledore twinkled at him over folded hands. "Just making certain, my boy."

He snorted. "If you think so," he said rudely, with a sudden yawn.

"Go back to your quarters, Harry," the old man said gently. "Sleep, for tomorrow you go to Diagon Ally."

"Rah, joy," he said dryly as he rose to his feet and headed to the door. "Rah rah," he threw over his shoulder before he shut the door.

Merlin forbid that anything exciting happen then.

–

_December 1998_

It was then he got the first inklings of the feelings of those around him, and his hollowed out feeling made a little more sense.

Harry was in the middle of pouring a cup of tea for Remus when Hermione burst into the door panting, the golden light of the sunset setting her hair afire with red highlights and shimmering golden streaks. She slammed the door, and the darkness enveloped the room as she stumbled forward with a desperate gasp. "Oh Remus, they've got werewolf hunters! They know you're here!"

Harry dropped the kettle, and burst into a fit of foul language. "I'll get Ron – we've got to change the wards!"

"I know!" she wailed, dashing for the stairs. "I know!"

"What's going on?" Remus demanded as he followed them up to the bedroom Ron was unconscious in.

"The wards only hide the shack from people who want to hurt Harry – and Remus, werewolf hunters don't want to hurt _Harry_," she said, rushing over to Ron and shaking him. He didn't rouse, though. "Oh, Ron, come on, please wake up!" she called frantically.

"It's only been a day, Hermione," Harry said quietly. "He's not going to wake up for another day at least ..."

"Then at least let's use Disillusionment spells!" she cried. "We can't let them get Remus!"

The desperation in her voice sent echoes through his head of a different time with a different scenario, but with the exact same desperation. Harry stared, and then it was like a light flickered on in his head. He cast a glance at Ron, then stood with his jaw set. "Remus, can you cast the Disillusionment?"

"Of course I can, but I don't know how much good that's going to do ..."

Harry turned on him fiercely. "We've got to _try_. Go, Hermione and I will sort out the wards."

"But neither of you have the power –"

"Go," he hissed. Remus gave him a startled look, then turned and left the room.

Hermione had turned pale, staring up at him. He turned to her and gripped her shoulders. "Hermione, you won't like it, but use my energy."

"Oh, Harry," she breathed quietly, staring up at him with wide frightened eyes. "But I can't – you know I can't. Using Ron's is hard enough, but your magic isn't anything like mine. Harry, it's not like _anyone's_."

"Then tell me how to do it," he demanded. "Tell me and I'll do it. Hermione, you don't want to feel what it feels like, and if we don't get the wards straight, you will know exactly what it feels like." She swayed, and then burst into tears. He quickly dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her. "Come on, Mione, tell me. I'll do my best – I will. I won't let them take him if you'll tell me how to _stop_ them."

She hiccupped, then pushed away from him, scrubbing an arm across her face. "Right," she said, collecting herself. She climbed to her feet, wand in hand, and stalked over to the window. "Come on," she said, jerking her head sharply at him. He jumped to his feet and joined her at the boarded window. "Harry, if you do this, you might end up as passed out as Ron is right now," she said, turning her serious brown eyes on him. They were blood-shot from her tears, but she looked determined and in charge. "Once you start, I'll head down and fetch the Sleepless Potion. We can't have you incapacitated, or saving Remus might just cost us everything. It might cost the world any chance of light."

"I can do this, Hermione," he insisted. "I know I can. I haven't failed myself yet."

"Oh, Harry, one day you're going to find your limits, and it's going to devastate you," she said, reaching out and smoothing his hair. She quirked a watery smile at him, then lifted her wand. "You must be very careful when saying the incantation, alright?"

But it was too late, for there was a pounding at the door, and the bay of hounds.

–

_Dear Harry,_

_I have sent this letter through Hermione, on a time delayed basis because I don't want you to be overwhelmed. It is imperative that you understand the difference between Gray and Dark, and as much as I wish that you won't have to travel the path that may lay before you, I can't run the risk of ruining this for you the same way I ruined much of your life by taking the easy way out, and not telling you about the Prophecy. _

_If this letter finds you, then it means that I have been slain. Whether this was at young Malfoy's hand, or Severus was forced to do it for him, it hardly matters. You must not hold other's ill decisions against them, Harry. Severus told me immediately what he must do, if Malfoy was to fail. I was poisoned, Harry, you saw that when you beheld my hand, and it's likely that whatever measure I might need to take when destroying the other Horcruxes might hasten it along. I could not have survived much longer, and this is why I told Severus that if it comes to it, he must not hesitate to slay me. It was a kindness on his part. Like you, Severus has his own loyalties, and his own friends that he cannot discard. _

_He is loyal to me, and has never hesitated to tell me anything that might be helpful. I admit that I have come to look upon him like a son, and perhaps that makes what I have done to him repeatedly even worse. I seem to do the most harm to those I care the most about, for I cared deeply for you as well. It pained me that you and Severus could barely stand each other, and I made many mistakes there as well, for I often did ill to Severus in favor of you. I thought it wise at the time, but now I question my judgment, especially in light of the conversation we had at the end of your fifth year term. _

_Severus can not help the way he is, just as your friends can not help the way they are. If you can find it in yourself to forgive him, then I would be thankful, even if I am not present to show it. _

_Harry, I think that it is important that you not shun the Dark. You have used Unforgivables in your time, I know, but you must be careful about it. Dark spells will seduce you. Remember what I have said before – you must chose between what is right, and what is easy. _

_I wish you luck, Harry, and I hope you find happiness. I think you have a greater chance at finding it than Severus ever will, and I would like at least one of you to be happy._

_- Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore_

–

**-- I solemnly swear I will use the Darkness for Good -- **

As always, leave an email for me to reach you at when you post comments or questions in your reviews.

**Posted**: Nov 10 2007  
**Next Update Expected**: Sometime before 2008 :B


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